


Lemon cakes

by klained



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Sex, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Masturbation, Mild Kink, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Post - Red Wedding, Rough Sex, Sex, Sexual Inexperience, Smut, Underage Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 49
Words: 76,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klained/pseuds/klained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In King's Landing, Sansa begins to feel an interest towards King Joffrey's dog. Sandor doesn't discourage it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The king’s name day tournament had gone well. Sandor had won the joust, this time by actually unhorsing his last opponent rather than being yielded to. The purse was enough to last a while, if he didn’t piss it all on ale and redheaded wenches. The little bird had sat beside her king and clapped enthusiastically for each of his wins. The king himself gave him the night off as a reward. So now he sat just below the royal dais, a place of honor for the winners.

Sandor emptied his mug and gestured for more. Just as no expense was spared for the purse, the feast was equally lavish. Venison, boar, pheasant, fruit from across the sea, and the sweet lemon cakes Sansa favored so much. Normally he couldn’t stand the sticky sweetness, but it paired well with the expensive wine chosen for the winners.

He reached for the last at his table at the same time as another man. Sandor turned his burns towards the other and growled. Whether it was his fierce reputation or fear of his look, Sandor won the last cake. Before he took a bite, however, a feminine cry and his king’s laugh drew his attention.

Up on the dais, the little bird was staring just below, her face stricken. On the floor before the dais was a lemon cake, smashed and crumbling. No more were seen on the royal table. King Joffery sat back comfortably in his chair laughing. Apparently the royal twit had knocked her last cake to the floor. Sansa’s eyes swept the room, a mix of hurt, horror, and pure disappointment causing her pretty blue eyes to redden and water.

When she saw Sandor with what is apparently the last lemon cake in existence, her mouth closed into a tiny pout and her eyes round, seeming to plead with him for it. He drained his mug again, debating with himself. The girl needed to learn disappointment and a lemon cake is not the same as a beating. Losing a sweet was not the same as losing one’s dignity or life. On the other hand, she had a pretty smile when she got her way.

His mind made up, Sandor looked up the dais to Sansa, met her eyes…

And swallowed the cake whole. That’ll stop her chirping for at least a day.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa pouted at the massive shadow that was the Hound’s giant back. It wasn’t fair! She hadn’t gotten one lemon cake at the feast, not after King Joffery knocked the last out of her hands, and the Hound had swallowed his third one right in front of her. Sandor hated sweets, so why couldn’t he have given the last one to her? It just wasn’t fair! And he had won the tournament and given a night off from his duties as Joffery’s sworn shield, so why was he escorting her back to the castle? Joff was just too cruel! And yet, none of this was an excuse to neglect her courtesies.

“You rode gallantly today, Sandor,” she said, catching up to him on his left. “Your victory was well earned.”

The Hound groaned and at looked at her sidelong, flinching as he brought the torch closer so she could see the path. “Still chirping, little bird? I thought you would be pouting after the loss of your cake.”

Sansa forced herself not to pout now. “It was unfortunate that it fell and I got none.” She looked past the flames at his scars. “I hope you enjoyed them. Cook always does an excellent job.”

Sandor stopped and turned to her. She felt uncomfortable under his stare, but tried not to squirm. “It didn’t fall, little bird. What really happened?”

“The king said I did nothing to deserve it and knocked it from my hands.” It wasn’t treason to speak the truth, was it? “I hadn’t had any and he’d eaten or shared all the rest so I thought one would be ok.”

He squatted before her, movements slow and careful. As he held her gaze, he snuffed the torch out in the dirt. In the darkness, she felt a large, heavily callused hand grope and grasp hers, a second cupping the back of her head. She was pulled forward until his large lips met hers in a kiss. The hairs of his beard scratched and tickled her in turn and her lips spread into a smile. At that moment, his large tongue slipped into her mouth, stroked her own, and retreated. She followed him, though whether to catch another taste of the lingering sweetness or because she enjoyed the kiss, she wasn’t sure. She inexpertly stroked her tongue along his and grasped his massive arm with her free hand. She tried to follow him when he pulled away.

“Do you like the taste of your cakes?” he whispered. She opened her eyes, not remembering when they closed. She sighed breathlessly and started to lean in for another kiss. “No, little bird.” His hand tightened in her hair and pulled her head back.

“Ser?” She blinked, eyes adjusting to the darkness.

Abruptly he released her and stood. “I’m no ser,” he snarled. She raced to catch up as he paced away.


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa sighed into the darkness and sat up. For three nights she had been unable to sleep, three nights she had lain awake thinking about Sandor’s kiss. It had started gently, so like the songs of gallant knights kissing their ladies fair. But as he had deepened it with his tongue, as she had reciprocated, a pressure had grown between her legs. That was never sung about. And she had wanted more. Not just more of the kissing, but… something she wasn’t sure of, something connected to that pressure. She threw back the covers and rose. Perhaps a bit of fresh air would help clear her mind, she decided. After pulling on her slippers and throwing her cloak over her nightgown, she slipped out into the night.

This was the first time in a while she was not being guarded or watched by the Kingsguard or the court. A sudden urge to flee took her and she quietly dashed out of the tower. Once in the yard, however, she hesitated. She had no clothes, no provisions, and a horse would be faster than running on foot. If she returned to her room for clothes, she might never get another opportunity again. The kitchens seemed to always be occupied, either preparing for or cleaning up after one of Joffery’s feasts. That just left her with stealing a horse and dealing with the others later. She looked across the yard towards the stables. It was just past the barracks and she worried about getting caught there as well. She glanced towards the last possible danger. Candles were lit, with shouting and laughter issuing from the open door. Perhaps they were too busy with their stories and drinking they wouldn’t see her.

She slipped through the dark, attempting to skirt the light. After the door she hugged the wall, heart beating wildly. No alarm had been raised. No one had seemed to notice her at all. She looked onwards. There were some windows still to pass, but if she stayed low and to the wall she wouldn’t be seen by anyone inside.

A barking laugh caught her attention and she instinctively looked towards the door. Though the cacophony drowned out individual words, the Hound’s voice could still be heard. Praying to all the gods she knew not to get caught, Sansa leaned ever so slightly and glanced in. Sandor was sitting at a table, facing the door, though not looking towards her. He was in the midst of some story. She guessed it to be about a kill based on his violent hand movements. His burns stretched and contorted to his expression and his eyes shown. The glint reminded her of her father’s eyes every time he looked at or talked about her mother. With a wave of homesickness, Sansa glanced back towards the stables, estimating how much further she had to go.

With a deep breath, she took one last look into the barracks and froze. Sandor was looking towards the door, right at her, ignoring the raucous around him. Their eyes met and he stood, snarling at the soldier next to him. Knowing she was caught, Sansa rose from her position and straightened her gown and robe. She hoped it didn’t look like she was running, hoped her near escape didn’t get back to Joffery.

“It’s late, little bird,” the Hound scowled down at her. “Best you be in bed, not wandering the training yard.”

Sansa nodded, ashamed at being caught, and silently followed Sandor back to her bedchamber. Her stomach twisted in mixed embarrassment at not getting away, and something else, something happy at being in proximity to the Hound. He opened her door and held it for her to enter. Not wanting him to leave just yet, she found herself stammering.

“I, um, I couldn’t sleep.”

“I know.” The bite was out of his voice and she looked up to his eyes. They were closed off, unreadable, not nearly as animated as when he was telling his story. She cautiously took his hand.

“Thank you for escorting me.”

She looped her other hand behind his neck and pulled his head down as she stood up on her toes. She kissed his scarred cheek, then his lips. This time, he mimicked her actions, touching his lips to hers and delving no further. Curious, she tentatively slid her tongue to his lips, delighted when they opened for her. She dipped into his mouth, a brief taste of cheap wine before withdrawing again. His tongue did not follow hers, but neither did he pull away. Feeling bolder, Sansa dipped inside again, stroking, departing, and diving in again.

His free hand finally rose, resting at her waist before sliding to her lower back, and he pulled her closer. Feeling him hold her, the tickle of his beard, his own taste hidden beneath the wine, caused the unfamiliar pressure start to build again. A sigh, nearly a moan, escaped Sansa’s throat as his own tongue finally joined the dance. With a start Sandor pulled away, standing above her, gently nudging her to arm’s length. The arm around his neck dropped to the one around her waist and she held. He remained rigid as she tried to step in, pull him close, anything for another kiss.

“No, little bird. No more. Go to bed.”

“Please, se- Sandor. One more kiss goodnight?”

He stood, impassive, watching her, studying her. She resisted the urge to pull away and tighten her cloak around her. The hand she held pulled away and slowly, hesitantly came to within a breath of her cheek. After another moment it closed the gap. His thumb stroked her cheekbone, the bridge of her nose. She took a shuddering breath as he touched her tender lip, and, wanting to taste him again, touched his thumb with the tip of her tongue. The pad was rough, salty, and still had that indescribable him-ness to it. His eyes widened, as if surprised or in pain, and he slipped the tip into her mouth. Unsure what was desired, Sansa closed her lips around him in a kiss that felt far more intimate.

With a growl, Sandor slipped his hand under her cloak, pulled her back to him, and dipped his head to her neck, planting rough kisses after bites and licks. A particularly sensitive point had Sansa gasp. Sandor released his thumb, only to be replaced by his first two fingers down to the knuckle. She tried not to choke on the large digits.

“Keep quiet, little bird, or I’ll use more than my fingers to gag you.”

Instinctively Sansa started to suck his fingers like one of the ice treats she had enjoyed in Winterfell. This time it was the Hound’s turn to moan and he walked her backwards into the room, arm around her waist keeping her from falling. Once inside the doorway, he stopped her and kicked the door shut. At the click of the latch, Sandor pulled his fingers from her mouth and waist. He held her face still, studying her, wet fingertips brushing the shell of her ear, before dipping his head for another kiss. The small amount of delicacy and gentleness found in their first two kisses was gone and Sansa felt like she was being consumed, like the Hound was a starving man and she was his feast.

She raised her hands and, with nothing else available, placed them at his waist. Her fingers slid inside his belt and she stepped closer. The squeezing, the pressure between her thighs grew as she let him claim her. She wanted more. She didn’t know what it was but knew the man devouring her could relieve it. She pressed into the kiss, hoping he understood.

One of his hands slid into her hair, holding her still, as the other slid down her cheek, her jaw, her neck, to the clasp of her cloak. Without breaking the kiss he unfastened it and the heavy wool dropped behind her. Sansa shivered as the cool night air suddenly filtered through her thin nightgown. The hand in her hair fisted slightly, holding her still as Sandor pulled away. His arm returned to her waist, hand resting on her bottom has he watched her.

“Cold, little bird?” His rough voice had grown deeper, breathless.

She thought it over. Was it chill she felt, or something else? A throb between her legs caused her to shiver again and she shook her head. He lifted her so their faces were level, her legs dangling, slippers falling off. Something hard poked at her. She ignored it as she wrapped her arms back around his neck.

“Don’t let me hurt you,” he said softly. When she nodded and tried to dip in for another kiss, her pulled her back again. “Promise me. Promise you’ll tell me to stop if I hurt you.”

Fear briefly gripped her. What could he do to hurt her? “I promise. I won’t let you hurt me.”

He let her kiss him then as he carried her to the bed. He climbed onto the mattress and laid her amongst the strewn covers and pillows. The hand in her hair slid down, whispering past her shoulders, grazing her tiny breast, down her narrow hip. At her thigh, he lifted her gown, exposing the skin, then slid his had back up the same path, holding her hip in place. The rough calluses of his hand scratched her sensitive skin and she pushed into his touch, wanting to feel more. He broke off and rested his forehead to hers.

“Are you a maid, little bird?” Sansa’s head was foggy from the new sensations and she blinked at him, confused. “Have you taken another man into your bed?”

She felt her cheeks heat. “N-no, my lord.”

His next kiss was soft, quick, reassuring. “No one has touched you? Joffery hasn’t tried to shame you when I wasn’t around?”

“No, I am a maid. No man has touched me before you,” she whispered.

Another kiss, slow and lazy this time. “And a maid you’ll stay.”

Sandor started to pull away but she clutched at him, wanting him over her, blanketing her, devouring her. No words came to her other than “Please.” Her courtesies failed and she could only beg.

“Steady, little bird,” he chuckled. “I promised not to hurt you, but I didn’t promise not to taste you.”

Sansa watched as he sat back and pulled her nightgown high up her hips. With his guidance, she sat up and let it be pulled over her head. Her mind swam, unable to latch onto a single thought. It was as though she had been reduced to little more than sensation. When his large, clothed form came back over her, every fiber in her rejoiced. She wrapped her arms around him, threaded her fingers through his hair, fisted his shirt, desperate to keep him close to her. The throbbing between her legs intensified and she bucked against him, finding the same hardness as before. As her juncture brushed it, the throbbing changed and she tried again, hoping for relief.

The Hound groaned where he’d been sucking on her neck. “Don’t.” He pinned her hips with one hand. “That’s to be saved for Joff.”

“But,” she panted. “I need…” What? She didn’t have the words to articulate it. “It feels good.”

“Keep still and quiet. I’ll make it better.”

Sansa did as she was told as he trailed his kisses down her body. The hand at her hip shifted, slid across and down amongst her dusting of curls. When a finger slid in between, she covered her mouth with a hand, trying to muffle her cry. Lightning coursed through her with each caress of his finger until it slid further, slid inside. Oh, this! This was what the throbbing was, this was what she needed. The finger stroked in and out, his thumb still caressing the sensitive point, pleasure shooting through her with each rub. She could almost weep for joy at this!

And suddenly, Sandor pulled away. She cried out and sat up, bewildered that he should stop. In the darkness, a wet pop assaulted her ears before the Hound’s voice came to her. “You taste delicious, little bird.” She flushed when she realized he had been licking his finger. “Will you let me taste more of you?”

Not knowing how to answer, she reached her hand out and found his face. The scars were smooth, uneven, and where his jaw poked through was hard and rough. As his head dipped down to kiss her belly, her hand slid back into his hair, holding him but still letting him wander her body. Another gentle kiss landed just above her curls, and then she was flat on her back. His rough hand slid up her body until it landed at her breast, squeezing the tissue and pinching the nipple.

A wet lick took her attention away from his other ministrations. Another had both her hands closing in his hair, holding him in place. Sandor growled like his namesake and nipped at her folds before licking and sucking at her in earnest. Sansa bit her lip, desperate to keep quiet, needing him to keep going, and arched into him. The hand that had given her so much pleasure before slipped back inside of her, rubbed and stroked. She bucked into him, unable to understand why he was doing or why she needed so much more than this.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to drown out the blackness of her room and only feel. Feel his hands squeezing and rubbing, his whiskers tickling the insides of her thighs. Feel his tongue lapping at her, his hooked nose nuzzling her open. His teeth nipping at her folds, his lips sucking, the lightning shooting threw her.

In one explosive moment, Sansa’s back arched, toes curled, body sang, and she barely caught the cry as it escaped. After just a few more gentle rubs, Sandor was above her again, finger at her mouth. She obediently sucked on it, tasting the salt and tang of her pleasure. He replaced it with his own mouth and tongue and she thrilled to taste him underneath all the layers of her. She held him close until there was nothing left but himself and she pulled away.

“What must I do now?” Her voice was huskier and breathy.

He buried his face in her neck. “Nothing, little bird. You did perfectly.”

“But mustn’t a woman let a man seek his pleasure on her?”

He groaned and nipped at the corner of her jaw. “If any man seeks his pleasure on you, I’ll kill him.” He rose from the bed and tossed the covers over her. “Go to sleep, little bird. It’s late.”

Grogginess over took her and Sansa barely heard the door shut behind her Hound as she finally fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Sandor hadn’t decided which was more stupid of him: taking the Stark girl to bed and eating her pussy, or the following morning telling the Kingslayer she was not being properly guarded. He had almost flipped her over and taken her up the arse like a true dog. On the other hand, ever so courteous, she would have let him, told him she enjoyed it, and he would have believed her, could have kept coming back and kept fucking her. Now, she had two red cloaks or Kingsguard on her night and day for the past month, and he had his hand or a whore’s mouth around his cock more often than not. He knew she was trying to run and he should have just let her. Then he wouldn’t have touched her, wouldn’t have drunken memories of her soft skin and tight gash, wouldn’t hear her little whimpers and muffled cries every time he came. When he hadn’t drunk enough he even wondered what “brave” and “gallant” knight she had imagined was lapping at her cunt. So he drank more.

Now he sat in the barracks’ dining hall, trying to drown those thoughts and memories. He blocked out every voice, no interest tonight in battles, killing, or whores. Through the haze of rue wine he saw two red cloaks saunter in, laughing. Let them laugh, the joke was on him. Amidst the noise, he heard one of the red cloaks declare “all redheads are whores, even highborn!” Sandor perked up his ears.

“Bet she screams for more on the weddin’ night!” his partner chimed in.

“Man on guard that night will be polishin’ his sword for a month after!”

A round of laughter had his blood boiling. They couldn’t be talking about…

“I’d love a taste of her highborn twat beforehand. Bet I could make the little wolf bitch howl before I’m done with her.”

“We all deserve a piece for guardin’ that little tart.”

That’s when their faces clicked for Sandor. These were the men meant to be standing outside her bedchamber now, keeping her in and men out. He jumped from the bench and staggered towards them. They were disobeying orders, talking of having something they had no rights to. In a blink, he had unsheathed his dagger and slit one of their throats before turning to the other.

“She’s a lord’s get, you whoreson,” he snarled. “And betrothed to your king!” He stabbed under the second soldier’s arm, killing him as well. “Who else wants to fuck your future queen? Who else wants to die?”

The rest of the men had fallen silent and averted their eyes. No one spoke, no one looked at him. With another angry growl, Sandor stormed out and into the night. Those fucking bastards had left the girl unwatched. Any fucking whore hopper could be riding her. He stumbled up the tower steps and down the hall. Images flashed through his mind of knights, common soldiers, lords, servants, smallfolk all in her chamber, taking her in every way, treating her like a common whore. The door was locked from inside and he pounded on it, slamming his shoulder against it.

“Get off her, you fucking bastard,” he roared. “Open this door or I’ll shove your rod down your throat before I kill you!”

The door opened a crack. “Sandor?” the little bird chirped.

He pushed the door open and strode past her. “Where is he? I’ll fucking kill him!”

“Where’s who?” Her voice was soft and dreamy with sleep. The door sounded with a soft click as she closed it. “There’s no one here. It’s just me.”

He continued searching, sure her hidden captor was forcing her to lie. The room began to brighten as she lit candles from the dying embers of the fire.

“Sandor, look. There’s no one here. I’m alone. I’m safe.”

She gasped as he turned to her. “Not as safe as you thought, little bird?” he snapped.

“You’re covered in blood. What happened? Are you hurt?”

Before he knew, she had him sitting at her dressing table and she was using a wet cloth to mop the blood of the dead red cloaks from his face. The candle was behind her, casting her face in shadow but her tiny fingers positioned him into the light. He flinched, waiting for some sign of her revulsion. Instead, his hair was pushed back, uncovering his scars.

“Please tell me what happened. Why are you here so late? Whose blood is this?”

“Your guards were failing in their duties.” He looked back around the room, still believing a rapist was there.

She turned his face back to her silhouette. Sandor felt her blue eyes watching him, studying him, and then the shadow slowly bent, kissed him softly on his forehead, paused, and pressed to his lips. She was still hesitant, ready to flutter off at the first provocation, but more skilled than the first time their lips met. He pressed his lips back, waiting for her to realize she was alone with the Hound, realize she was no safer than with a knight. When her tongue darted out, he opened his mouth readily, dueling with her. He felt her fingers tangle in his hair as she sighed, all but melting into him. He growled into her mouth and pulled her down onto his leg, deepening and dominating the kiss.

She wriggled against him, breasts brushing against his chest, leg grazing his cock and he pulled her closer, trying to keep her still. Her tiny body leaned into him, demanding more than she would understand. With a last vestige of control he broke away, cursing his hardening prick. From his lap, her face was fully in the candle light. A flush colored her cheeks, full lips swollen, and the surrounding skin red and tender from his beard. She was breathing heavily, her tiny breasts rising and falling in the thin nightgown. Her eyes opened and her flush deepened.

“Sandor,” she whispered, leaning in for another kiss.

He turned away quickly and her lips landed near the exposed bone. Rather than pulling away, she simply continued her kisses down to his throat. Though her kisses were artless, she clearly had remembered his actions from that night. Her hands slid from his neck to his shoulders to his chest and back again, clearly not knowing what to do. His eyes slid shut at her eagerness, his groin getting painful and heavy. The wine induced fog grew heavier from her attentions.

“Stop, little bird,” he choked. Thinking was near impossible. If he didn’t quit now, he never would. “Stop, we can’t do this.”

She kept her arms around his neck but pulled back. After a look at his face she blushed and dropped her gaze to his chest.

“I was, um,” her voice stayed low. “I was hoping to… what you did, last time…” She glanced up at him through her lashes.

He snorted. “I shouldn’t have done it ‘last time’ and I’m not doing it again.” He pushed her from his lap and rose.

“No! I mean, I want to do it to you…”

He froze. His dick stood ready and it would take nothing to have her on her knees and swallowing him whole.

“Have you sucked a man’s cock, little bird?” Her eyes widened at his language. “Have you even seen one?” Her face nearly matched her hair and she shook her head timidly. “Do you even know what to do with a man, beyond letting him at your cunt?” He leaned over her, hands on her dressing table, and she recoiled from him. “No, you can’t even look at me, and you expect me to believe you want my cock?”

“No, it’s not that,” her hand came to her nose, “it’s the smell. The blood and… other things. I’m sorry.”

He barked a laugh. Of all the things for her to consider, she was offended by his smell? “Well then bathe me, little bird. Make me less offensive to your delicate nose.”

He straightened and stood before her, waiting. They stared a moment before she began fumbling with his belt. Once it dropped to the floor, Sandor pulled his tunic off. In the dancing candle light, he knew Sansa could see every scar he’d earned as the Lannisters’ Hound. Without a sound, she turned away, wetting her cloth in the basin. When she turned back, there was no expression but her eyes still darted across him, seeing everything.

The cold, wet cloth slid around his neck, across his shoulders, and down an arm. She dampened her cloth and turned back, scrubbing his hands and fingers then sliding it up the inside of his arm. She wet the cloth again and turned her attentions to his other arm. He remained still, impassively watching her face, waiting for some reaction beyond curiosity to color her expression. He watched as the water in her basin slowly darkened with dirt, dried sweat, and blood from himself and others. Each time she turned away, the water left by her cloth trickled down and dried on his chest, his stomach, the waist of his trousers. He turned his head to watch as she circled behind him, tried to suppress a shudder as she washed his back.

He turned his eyes forward again and waited. When she came back around, she soaked, wrung out, then soaked the cloth again. Turning back she glanced down at the bulge in his trousers, up at his face, and landed at his chest. Her face tinged pink again. Sandor grabbed her chin and lifted her to face him. He stared at her, daring her to look away as he unlaced and pulled his cock out. He stroked himself, waiting for any sign of fear or disgust. Instead she simply looked uncertain. He released her, rough enough that she caught a glimpse of his length before looking back at his face again.

“I thought you were going to bathe me.” He pushed his trousers to his knees. “Have you changed your mind, little bird?”

Her eyes hovered at his navel as she washed his waist and hips. When the cloth dropped to his groin, he wrapped his hand around hers, and stroked. Her eyes timidly glanced down, then became riveted, watching the cloth slid along the shaft. An experimental squeeze of her hand had him bucking and groaning. With resolve he didn’t know he had, Sandor pushed her hand away and snatched up the cloth. After reaching around her to rewet it, he quickly finished wiping down his balls and thighs, sparing a pass for his arse. He tossed the cloth into the basin and sat back down in the seat, bringing him just below her eyelevel.

“Do you still want this, little bird?” He slowly stroked his dick, squeezing out a drop. “Do you still want me to fuck your mouth?”

“Why must you talk like that? Why must you use those words?”

“What words would you have me use? What you’ve asked for isn’t ‘making love,’ little bird. It isn’t romantic, isn’t part of songs fit to be sung in front of ladies. It’s what men pay whores to do.”

“You… you did it for me. I’m not a man and I won’t pay you for it.”

He smiled, chuckling deep in his chest. “No, little bird. You are not a man and I asked no payment. You are also no whore and I will pay you nothing.”

“I don’t want a payment.”

“But you still want to do this?” She nodded. “Say it, little bird,” he said perversely, hoping for a reason to stop. “Say you want to suck my cock.”

Her face became enflamed and she fumbled with the words. “I-I want t-to suck your…” She glanced down, then back into his eyes. “Your cock,” she squeaked.

“Get on your knees.” She complied, watching him just as he watched her. “Touch my shaft. Wrap your hand around it and stroke it.” She turned her attention to his prick, touching him delicately, sliding across him as if he was made of glass. “You won’t break me, little bird.” He silently cursed himself for sounding so strained. “Harder.”

Her hands were soft as silk as she tightened her grip. Sandor allowed himself a moment to enjoy the sight of her kneeling before him. As her arm worked, a bit of red hair shifted and obscured his view of her. He pushed the hair back behind her shoulder then threaded his fingers through the soft strands.

“Use your mouth,” he ordered. Her hand froze and she looked back up, eyes wide. “If it please my lady,” he mocked. She pursed her lips and pecked the tip, watching him the whole time. When she started to pull back he stopped her with the hand in her hair and pulled her close again. “More.”

With her lips slightly parted, she kissed his cock again, flicking the tip of her tongue against him. He groaned at her perfect lips on him. She seemed to take it as an encouragement and opened her mouth a little further. “Relax your jaw,” he said as her teeth grazed him. “I don’t want bit.” Once she did he slid the head inside and groaned again as she inexpertly lapped at him. “Suck.”

Each of his commands were obeyed a little more quickly, her uncertainty fading just a little more. As she became less hesitant, Sandor slowly slid deeper into Sansa’s mouth. When her lips met her hand, he pulled back again just as slowly. The next time she took him in on her own and the third he could not help but thrust. Her surprised squeak reverberated through him and he thrust again. This shouldn’t be happening, he shouldn’t be touching, shouldn’t have her touching him. “Fuck, little bird. Tell me to stop, please,” he begged. Instead the girl circled her tongue around him and sucked harder.

He found himself hunching over her, all coherent thought gone. With a grunt he released in her mouth. The suddenness of it had the girl pulling away, choking and coughing on his seed. Finishing across her face could not be helped when a drop of his cum glistened in the corner of her mouth. He pulled her hand away from his twitching cock, then took the cloth from her wash basin. After wringing it out, he gently mopped her face, removing all traces of his pleasure.

“Was I alright? Did I do it correctly?”

“You did perfectly, little bird.” He carefully stepped away from her and dressed, back turned. “Keep your door locked at night. Don’t even let me in.” Without another word, Sandor stepped out of her chamber and back into the night.


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa politely clasped her hands as she looked out the window of the carriage. Rambling down the streets of King’s Landing, she saw how the smallfolk, or rather the small council, had decorated the city to celebrate the official coronation of King Joffrey. Streamers and pennants in red, yellow, and black hung from windows and doors. The overhangs above merchant stalls were replaced with striped canvas in the king’s colors. High out of reach were banners with the stag and lion, using expensive crimson and cloth-of-gold. The streets were mostly empty, a few stragglers making their way to the Great Sept. She shuddered to remember the last time she had been here.

When the carriage pulled into the courtyard of the sept, she tried not to look towards the spot where her father was beheaded. She didn’t think she could remain standing if there was a trace of his blood. Instead, she kept her eyes on Queen Cersei and followed her into the sept. Once the other lords and ladies still in the city had filed in, King Joffrey made his appearance. He was dressed as he often was: rich brocades woven with stags and lions, cloth of gold lining the inside of his sleeves, golden clasps on his doublet. Only his usual antlered crown was missing, as it would be placed on his head during the ceremony.

The Kingsguard followed close behind in their shining white armor and blinding cloaks. As the Hound passed her, Sansa’s stomach flipped, remembering how it felt to have his head between her thighs, how he tasted when he completed in her mouth. In the three months since he had stormed into her room, he seemed to avoid her and being alone with her at all costs.

The ceremony moved slowly, the septon passing blessings from each of the gods to Joff between hymns of praise. Sansa bowed with everyone else after the crown was placed on the king’s head, raising her voice with the others in hailing him and his reign. Once the ceremony was over, she followed the king as his dutiful betrothed to the steps she had stood on so many months ago. Joffrey addressed the smallfolk as their anointed king, but she ignored the words. The people cheered for him and for the celebrations to come. He hadn’t cared if the smallfolk celebrated his coronation or not, but the small council planned it anyways, telling him it was best to show a bit of goodwill during troubled times.

“My lady?” he prompted as he stretched out his hand to lead her back to the carriage. A wild longing seized her.

“If it please your grace, I would like to stay a while longer and pray for your continuing reign.” She could see him working her request through his mind, looking for any sort of insult.

“Very well,” he said at last. “Be sure to pray I am as merciful to traitors like your brother as I was to your father.”

“Of course, your grace.”

Sansa slipped back into the sept, nearly empty now the coronation was over. Sure she was being watched she made her way to each altar. Upon lighting the candles, she said the appropriate prayers for King Joffrey, but her thoughts went to her family, asking the Warrior to help Robb, the Crone to guide her mother, the Maiden to protect Arya. When she reached the Stranger she lit no candles but still thought of her father, hoping he could be at peace. A quick glance behind her revealed a blessedly empty sept. Thankfully everyone had left her alone!

She quietly slipped behind the altar of the Stranger and crouched down. She had to work quickly, before anyone returned. She removed the expensive hair net she had been gifted for the event and made a number of tiny plaits similar to what she had seen through the carriage window. She removed her brooch and jewels, carefully tucking everything inside her dress. Though she had to dress nicely for the occasion, she hoped it was plain enough that she did not look like a lady.

One last peek around the sept confirmed she was still alone and she darted for the door. Peeking outside she could see the smallfolk were too engrossed in their festivities to notice anyone sneaking out. She squeezed through the door and dashed down the steps before anyone could see her. And finally, finally, she was free!

Drifting into the crowd, however, proved to be a mistake. She was jostled and poked, her breasts squeezed and bottom pinched. Men she made eye contact with would leer, women laughed in her face, a passing child nearly knocked her over. Just before she lost her balance, a large, callused hand caught her by the shoulder. When she was steady, she turned to find Sandor standing behind her, his armor replaced by a simple yellow tunic and dusty brown trousers and boots.

“Isn’t safe to be wandering the city alone, little bird.” He had leaned close to speak directly to her and his familiar smell washed over Sansa.

“I’m sorry. I just,” she looked around. The formerly sinister-looking crowd was now ignoring her completely. “I wanted to join the celebration.”

He nodded. “I thought so. Come on.”

She let him lead her by the elbow, sure that she would be beaten once they returned to the castle. The sudden appearance of a lemon cake stand in front of her, however, caught her by surprise. She watched as Sandor paid for two and downright stared as one was given to her.

“To King Joffrey,” Sandor saluted with his cake before biting into it. Sansa copied the motion and bit into her own. The excess tartness was more than she expected. His laugh at her face made her blush. “Sugar is expensive for smallfolk,” he explained as he guided her to a circle around some musicians. “The lemon tastes stronger because of it.” She nibbled another bite and he groaned. “Give it here if you don’t want it.”

“No, I like it!” She took a heartier bite. “It’s good!”

From the corner of her eye, the Hound watched her eat some more before turning his attention to the musicians singing songs about knights and heroes. They sounded like songs Old Nan had taught her, but some of the words were different, and there were entire verses she did not recognize. A particularly bawdy song had her blushing profusely, remembering the sight of Sandor naked before her as the singer praised a hero’s “third leg” and “lady’s delight.”

When the song ended, the crowd around them cheered enthusiastically and she began to be jostled again. Sandor’s arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders and she stayed close to him. Without prompting, he led her back to the periphery of the crowd, silently guiding her to various temporary merchant stalls. Anything that received a lingering glance from her was purchased with his coin: a mug of spiced wine to wash down the cake, some ribbons for her hair, a flower from a poor girl.

“Did Joffrey know I wanted to come to the festival?” she asked at last, uncertain where this generosity was coming from.

“No.”

“Does he think I stayed just to pray?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you go back to the castle with him?”

“He ordered me to stay and bring you back when you were done. Are you done, little bird?”

Sansa glanced quickly around the celebration. “I’d like to stay a while longer and watch, if it’s allowed?”

Sandor nodded and led her to the statue of Baelor. He lifted her up and placed her at the saint’s feet. From this height she was able to sit and watch everything. Near the musicians some of the smallfolk had started dancing, while across the courtyard some of the men were competing against each other in acts of strength. The rest of the people milled around from stand to stand.

“Thank you.” She had to lean down to speak directly into his good ear.

“I’ve done nothing to deserve your thanks, little bird.” He growled at her, but it wasn’t as harsh as it usually was.

When it grew late, Sandor took Sansa back to the sept. She pulled her hair back into the net and donned her jewels as he armored himself. Without another word, he escorted her to a carriage and they rode back in silence. Outside her chamber, she stopped him from leaving.

“Please don’t tell anyone, not even Joffrey,” she pleaded.

“I won’t, little bird.”

After a swift kiss to his cheek, Sansa ducked inside her room and closed the door to prepare for supper.


	6. Chapter 6

Once the girl closed her door, Sandor picked up the flower that had fallen from her hair. The child selling them had looked like nothing special, but Sansa had cooed over her and the half wilted weeds. The one she eventually chose got tucked into one of the braids in her hair and forgotten about. For the rest of the day, the bit of purple had caught his eye each time he looked her way. When at last it was time to leave, she had left it in her hair and the poorness of the flower contrasted sharply against the grandness of her jewels and hair net. Only her sudden movement as she had kissed his cheek had been enough to dislodge it. He tucked the thing in his pouch to hide the evidence of her small adventure.

******

Over the next few days, he watched the girl carefully. She was starting to learn to pick her words, to choose them carefully so as not to raise the king’s ire. She kept quiet most of the time now, speaking only when spoken to. But she watched. She watched the courtiers as they flattered their way into favor. She watched his fellow Kingsguard members for how they looked at her: with hate, with pity, with lust.

And she watched him. He would catch her glancing from the corner of her eye. After a moment she would duck her head and look away with a tiny smile. Sometimes a becoming flush would grace her cheek. At those times he would curse himself for wanting to know the cause, for wanting to be the cause. He could see she was developing an unnatural interest to him. He knew he should end it, break her heart, show the little bird the folly of mooning after a hound. Avoid her if nothing else worked.

“You yawn, my lady,” Joffrey said to Sansa one day. “Does my melee bore you?” He couldn’t blame her if it did. Blunted swords and poor fighters made for a dull battle, even a mock one.

The girl looked over the king’s shoulder at Sandor and colored before answering. “Forgive me, Your Grace, no. I have not been sleeping well.” She finished with her eyes meeting his again. When her flush deepened slightly he knew just what was keeping her awake at night.

“Pray tell, what has been keeping you awake, dear lady?” The brat king’s voice started to get the dangerous edge to it, finding a slight in her exhaustion. Her eyes widened and she lost some of the pretty color in her cheeks as she ducked her head.

“That would be our fault,” Sandor found himself interjecting. He couldn’t believe he was defending her for being foolish. “I have been training the soldiers at night according to the Hand’s orders. The sounds from the training yard carry throughout the castle.” He saw her shoulders relax with relief.

“Is this true, my lady? Has my dog been keeping you awake at night?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the girl murmured, nodding fervently.

“Dog!” Sandor grimaced, sick of the name. “You need to learn to be quieter so as not to disturb my lady. She’s not as pretty when she yawns all the time.”

“My apologies,” he grumbled in her direction.

“I only hope you are able to sleep well yourself, se– Hound,” she replied. He knew she was trying to appear courteous, but the intimacy of the subject and her wide blue eyes had his cock stirring. “You do so much, I would hate for you to be too tired to guard our good king.” She gave the boy a frightened smile.

“My lady is right,” Joffrey replied. “Hound, you work so hard you deserve to be rewarded for your service. I want you in better quarters. Starting tonight I want you in the chamber next to Sansa’s.”

The girl’s flush was gone at this point and she had gone pale. “It’s already occupied, Your Grace.”

“So?” the boy-king sneered.

“They’ll need time to leave pack and find new chambers. Wouldn’t it be better to wait a day or two before the Hound takes the rooms?”

In response, a page was sent to clear out the current residents immediately.

That night, Sandor learned quickly why it was so important to Joffrey for him to have this room. As he removed his armor before bed he could hear voices through the wall. Though he could not make out the words, the little bird’s courteous little chirps were recognizable. He groaned. This was meant to be another punishment for the girl. She was to hear everything he did, be it snoring or whores, and she would get even less sleep. For a moment he marveled at the boy’s surprising use of minor forethought as opposed to immediately lashing out. He changed quickly and left for the barracks. If he was going to survive being just a thin wall away from the little bird, he would need wine. Lots of wine.

******

Sandor staggered back to his new chambers, brain fuzzy and already starting to pound from the wine. The stairs up the tower nearly tripped him several times and he didn’t remember latching the door on his way out. Once he made it in, he worked his way to bed. The dark made his way difficult and he found himself tripping over furniture he didn’t recall being there. In peevish retaliation, he let his clothes drop where he removed it. At long last, naked and exhausted, he climbed into the bed and fell asleep.

Shortly before dawn he was woken groggy and hurting. A small, warm body was curled up to him; the hand resting on his chest was pale in the weak moonlight. The woman’s skin was soft in his hands, her hair like silk. Her cheekbones were high, the angles still slightly rounded like a child. The darkness made it difficult to judge the shade of her hair but he was certain it was a wrong shade of red. He didn’t remember getting a whore and was impressed to have found one this lovely in his drunken stupor. Her resemblance, however weak, to the little bird had his cock waking up as well.

He already paid for the whore, might as well use her.

Pushing her to her back, Sandor moved between her legs. The whore murmured sleepily, blinking at him in the dark. He stroked at her cunt, imagining Sansa’s sighs and moans in place of woman before him. He shouldn’t have touched the little bird, shouldn’t even think of her, but thoughts of her in the throes of pleasure were never far from his mind. When he slipped a finger in the whore’s wet quim, he groaned with her, surprised to feel it as tight as he remembered the girl’s to be.

In front of him, the woman arched and writhed, hiding her face with her arms and muffling her moans. He didn’t care. She didn’t need to look at him, just be ready for him to fuck her. With one hand he raised her hips level with the tip of his dick and the other guided him in. The velvet channel squeezed so tightly he could no longer sit upright. He found himself hovering above her, catching himself by the forearms before he smothered her. He thrust again, head spinning as the whore whimpered and cried out beneath him. He slid one hand down her body, the skin soft, smooth beneath his rough fingers. He roughly squeezed a breast and pinched the nipple before continuing down to her hip. He clutched her tightly to brace himself as he thrust and ground deeper into her.

She kept her face covered but one arm draped across his shoulders. Her nails clawed and scratched at him, and he was sure by morning he would have some new scars. The need and desire she faked so well drove him further. He pounded harder and faster until he spent into her tight hole. As he stroked out the last of his orgasm, he grazed his thumb across her nub. Her cries turned to moans as her own peak hit her.

“Sandor,” she panted.

He froze. Sandor never gave a whore his name. There was no need for names. He pulled away. Grabbed the wench and pulled her naked form to the window. There was not enough light to see the shade of her hair, the color of her eyes, but it was her. Sansa Stark, not a whore.

“What are you doing in my bed?” he barked, stomach dropping.

“These are my chambers. You came to my room.”

She was whispering, as if afraid to anger him. She was supposed to be the one angry, her maidenhead in tatters. The queen would be angry, the girl’s value to her gone. The king would be angry, the betrothed he hated so much taken by his dog. Sandor backed away from the girl, seeing his death in the glistening drop of seed and blood rolling down the inside of her thigh. Quickly, he grabbed the possessions he could find before sliding out the door and to his own room.

He dug a kerchief from his pouch and roughly wiped away her juices and the rest of his seed. Something dark on the floor caught his eye and he bent to pick it up. The night had turned it black and it had dried in his pouch, but he recognized Sansa’s flower from the coronation celebration. Memories flooded him unbidden. Memories of her wide eyes dancing that day, of her eagerness to please him as she’d sucked his cock, her ready pleasure as he’d tasted her. Memory of how tightly her cunt had clutched at his cock. He began to harden again and he quickly beat it into the handkerchief.

How was he meant to avoid her if he kept finding himself in her room? How was he supposed to expect her to lose interest in him if he couldn’t stop thinking of her?

The sun rose to him crouched on the floor, waiting to be summoned for justice.


	7. Chapter 7

Myrcella left that afternoon, sailing on the midday tide. Sansa envied the princess, wished she had asked to go as a companion. It wasn’t unheard of, particularly in the south, for a highborn lady to have a companion until she came of age. As Joffrey’s betrothed, though, she was meant to stay. Her eyes strayed to the Hound beside the king. The guard kept his customary scowl but his eyes didn’t stray to her as they sometimes did. Throughout the blessing and farewells the large man ignored her so completely she began to wonder if she had imagined him in her room, in her bed, in… her. The ache between her thighs assured her it hadn’t been a dream.

She ducked her head as she felt her face warm. While Septa Mordane had called it a lover’s treasure, Sandor had called it her cunt. No matter the name, feeling his manhood tearing her open had hurt, but being stretched and filled was soon as pleasurable as his fingers and tongue had been so many months ago. His strong thrusting, however, had left her sore and she was glad little was required of her today beyond riding her horse and standing quietly. Walking correctly had been a struggle and hiding it was a relief.

She said some words in an attempt to comfort Prince Tommen but received a harsh retort from the king. When it came time to leave, she dutifully rode beside him, but her eyes again strayed to his favorite guard. Her distraction kept her from seeing the harsh looks of the crowd until they started yelling slurs at the queen. A wad of filth flying past her caught her by surprise and she wanted desperately to leave for the castle and safety.

She pleaded to Joffrey to leave, to ignore the jeers, and her stomach dropped when Sandor was sent after the culprit instead. When the people started screaming at them all, the Lannisters bolted, closely followed by most of the Kingsguard. Sansa kicked her mare to catch up, but they were too far ahead and she was lost. The mob crowded around her, yelling for bread and coin.

“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I don’t have anything. Please let me pass.”

Looking around, she saw no friendly faces, no one to help her. A hand on her ankle had her gasping and she tried to shake the stranger away. Another grasped the bridle so she couldn’t ride. A rock hit her temple and she swayed in her saddle, momentarily stunned. The man at her foot took advantage of her stillness and started to pull her off the saddle again. Another grabbed her wrist and pulled at her as well. She tried to push them away but her limbs felt heavy and sluggish.

Before she fell, the screams from the crowd changed and something red sprayed her and the horse. Pushed back into her saddle, her head began to clear. The Hound was before her, fighting the mob away. His cruel laugh froze her heart. It was hard to believe this beast, delighting in his cruelty, was the same man that had shared her bed only the night before, had once caused her so much pleasure with the same fingers wrapped around that sword. The Hound leapt in front of her on the saddle and forcefully pulled her arms around him.

The steel of his armor smelled of blood and metal. Through the cracks and joins, though, she could smell his sweat and something else she associated with him. She leaned close and held his breastplate tightly. He had come for her. Sandor had come to her in the riot just has he had come to her bed.

“We’re even,” he growled back to her.

Reaching the keep, she was aware Tyrion Lannister was talking, calling her name. She was aware of being lowered from the saddle. She heard the Hound speaking and felt the maester take her arm. All she knew, though, away from the safety of Sandor, was the mob surrounding her, limbs being chopped off, blood misting across her dress.

It was several hours later, judging by the light through her window, when she returned fully to herself. The maester had cleaned the cut on her head and left a small cloth on it. She made her way to the looking glass on her dressing table. Removing the cloth, she found a small cut no worse than what Arya used to get. The bump around it was an ugly purple and tender to the touch, but she did not bleed further.

Blessedly alone, she returned to her bed and fished a tunic from under the mattress. Sandor had forgotten to grab it in his haste to leave her that morning and she only noticed it as the sun was rising, moments before her maid entered. She held it close now, smelling him on it. He smelled like safety and desire. She clutched it even as she slept, dreaming of the riot and dangers.

Sansa woke in the night screaming, her face wet from tears. A rough thumb gently brushed the tears away as she blinked into the dark, her dream making her afraid the riot had continued and broken into the castle.

“It’s over, little bird,” came the slurred whisper. For once the wine had made the Hound’s growls less ferocious. “The riot is over, the mob dispersed. The Imp created a curfew. Anyone outside their homes will be killed. The gates to the castle are locked against them.”

With one hand Sansa stroked Sandor’s face as the other continued to clutch the tunic. “Please stay,” she pleaded.

He seemed to hesitate before responding. “No. I shouldn’t be here now. I’m no better then the men who meant to rape you today. I’ve taken your maidenhead, they wanted it, none of us deserve it.” He pulled away and she heard him make his way towards the door. “And stop crying,” he snarled. “Some of us want to sleep tonight.”

When the door closed, Sansa curled into a ball, silent tears still rolling down her cheeks. She buried her face in the tunic and breathed deeply until she fell back asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Even now, days later, he still couldn’t understand it. Sandor was certain Joffrey or Cersei would call for his head the second they found out. He hadn’t just fucked the girl, he as good as raped her. Why hadn’t Sansa said anything? Asked him to stop, begged him to leave, anything? Instead she had just lain there, as if she was letting him take her maidenhood, consenting to him making her his whore. And, gods, he’d treated her like a whore. His balls had slapped lewdly against her before he roughly spent in that tight little quim.

But as the day had passed no one came for him, not Payne nor any cloaks sworn to a Lannister. Making his way to the courtyard, the rest of the Kingsguard gave the same fearful distance they always did. When the royal farewell party came out and mounted their horses, nothing was said. The little bird had glanced at him and blushed. She was clearly pleased with herself, if the tiny smile was any indication. Sandor began to breathe more easily when it became clear she had no intention of revealing their secret.

Until the rioting started. It wasn’t a surprise when he got separated from the others, but the mob let him pass after he cut through one or two of them. When he found Sansa, all but off her horse, a mob of men groping for her, his throat had gone dry. Her guard had gone craven and run, leaving her there alone. There was blood leaking from her temple and her eyes had lost some of their brightness. He gave no thought to the men he gutted, to the owner of the hand he removed. His only concern was getting the rioters back and getting the girl to safety.

And he’d told her they were even. Her life for his. He snorted to himself even now. They would never be even. Not if he saved her life a thousand times, not even if he stole her away from the keep and took her home, would he ever be able to put right his mistake. And so he continued to snarl and snap at her, even as he kept her from falling off the tower wall.

The smell of burning followed him into his chambers and he took a long pull of wine from the flagon in his hand. As he swallowed, he noticed the tunic. It was the one Sandor had been wearing the night he… He thought he had forgotten it in the girl’s room. Now it lay carefully draped across a chair. He picked it up and a whiff of perfume caught his attention. Apparently he had forgotten it and the little bird’s precious courtesies dictated she return it after she had gotten her own use from it. He glanced around the room, looking for anything else out of place. His red tunic with the leather hound’s head was missing. The chambermaids had quit cleaning his rooms after he threatened to rape one of them so they wouldn’t have moved it. Which only left…

“Open this door!” Sandor bellowed. Now the girl finally learns to lock her door, when it’s too late!

“Sandor,” said Sansa when she answered. Her blue eyes were wide as she stared at him through the small gap.

“Give it back,” he demanded as he pushed through. “Didn’t your septa teach you not to be a little thief?” Above the neck of her dressing gown he saw a bit of red and pulled the robe off of her.

Her delicate frame was drowned in the rough cloth and the color nearly blended with her auburn hair, but the look suited her. The neck opening was off center from his rough treatment of her robe. The sleeves nearly covered her hands and the hem fell to mid-thigh. She stood awkwardly, trying to cover her legs with the short hem while straightening the neck. He depravedly wondered if she was wearing smallclothes underneath.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, all but cowering from him. “I was frightened after the riot. It helped me…” Sansa’s eyes began to water.

“Stop crying!” he snarled. “You think your tears would have saved you from that mob? You think they would have stopped when you asked? All they wanted was what’s between your legs. All any man wants is your cunt!”

“Even you?” She said it so softly he almost thought he misheard her. When he didn’t answer she continued. “Is that why you came to me? You only wanted… that? Not me?”

A small part of him admired her for not weeping, for trying to stare him down. He would admire her more if it wasn’t his right ear she was watching. “I didn’t know it was you, little bird. I was drunk and thought this was my room. When I woke up, I thought you were a whore.” She blinked at him and her eyes shifted to the tip of his shoulder. “Look at me!” She jumped but met his eyes, her hands clasping in front of her. “If I’d known where I was, if I’d known it was you, it would never have happened. Believe that.” Then he remembered. “Why didn’t you say anything? You promised you’d tell me to stop if I hurt you.”

“I wanted… that, wanted to please you.” He had to step closer to hear her. “I thought you had come because you wanted…” Her face was soon glowing with her discomfort. “I am sorry if I caused you any displeasure.”

Sandor’s groin tightened. “No, little bird. You’ve always done perfectly.” He roughly pulled her into a kiss. When Sansa eagerly pressed closer he groaned, her belly pressing against his hardening shaft. He was pleasantly surprised to have her lean closer and clutch at him. He broke away. “We don’t have to do this, little bird.” She strained to pull him back down to her level. “Say it. Tell me what you want. Say the words.” He told himself he would only do what she asked and no more.

“Please, my lord, I want to feel you inside me.” She was squeaking by the end but he rewarded her with another kiss.

With on arm wrapped around her waist, he pulled the tunic up until he could reach under. He moaned when his hand met the flesh of her bottom. He broke away long enough to pull the tunic over her head and she stood before him completely bare. He rested his hands on her smooth shoulders. He gently slid his hands down her silky sides, not wanting to hurt her. His thumbs circled the points of her teats and his fingers pressed into the soft mounds. Sansa’s eyelids drooped and closed at his continued touch. She sighed as his hands slid lower. There was the faintest indent at her waist with a small flair of the hips. She had grown since he first tasted her.

“On the bed, little bird.”

As she darted away, Sandor began to undress, fumbling with his belt before he could remove his tunic. His boots were hardly loosened before he kicked them off and unlaced his trousers. The girl watched from the bed, arms wrapped tightly around her legs. Her eyes were wide in the candlelight, staring at his every movement. He grabbed his dick and stroked it to full hardness. She bashfully tried to hide behind her knees.

“Turn around,” he growled. He didn’t need her to look at him as he fucked her. “Get on your hands and knees. Face the pillows.”

Brow furrowed she complied, head still twisted around to continue watching him. He kneeled behind her. Her whole body shuddered as he slid a hand down her spine and she ducked her head. He braced her hip as his fingers slid through her slit. A graze of her nub earned him a gasp. When Sandor slipped a finger into her soaking cunt, Sansa gave a cry that went straight to his cock. He worked one then two fingers into her opening until so she was writhing against his palm.

“Easy, little bird.” He stroked his damp fingers around his cock. “There’s still time.”

He tightened his hand on her hip and gripped himself tightly. After sliding up then back down her slit, Sandor slowly pressed forward. The velvety tightness around the head had him groaning, trying to restrain himself from slamming into her. With both hands braced on her now, he slid forward inch by agonizingly delicious inch. Finally he had her pressed against him and his dick fully sheathed in her. It took more restraint than he knew he had to remain still. He needed to remember this, needed to memorize everything.

“Please.” Sansa’s whimpers broke the spell. “Please, I… please.”

He slid almost out and pushed back in again. Her little cries undid him and he began pounding into her. He wrapped one arm around her hips and lowered himself onto her, chest to back, his other hand covering hers on the bedding. Her pants and sighs were sweeter than music. The hand around her hips slid lower, teased her opening, avoided her little nub.

“Yes, little bird. Sing my favorite song.”

Stroking her nub directly caused her to cry out and push against him. He thrust and ground against her until his seed spent into her. He bit Sansa’s shoulder as his completion rocked him before he soothed the sore with his tongue and lips. He breathed heavily, panting into her ear. Her arms shook and gave out. The cool air hit Sandor’s chest when she collapsed to her forearms, only his arm and cock keeping her from lying out fully on her stomach.

He hated how weak he was for her. “Is that what you were looking for, m’lady?” he mocked. She gave a muffled response. “Does m’lady enjoy having a hound’s cock inside her little cunt?” She mumbled again.

Sandor ground against her one last time before pulling from her and dressing. He grabbed his stolen tunic and froze on his way out the door when he realized her answer had sounded distinctly like “yes, thank you, my lord.”


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa fingered her few dresses that had not gotten smoke damaged. She had panicked at the sight of the blood, worried her body should betray her every time she gave herself to the Hound. Once she saw just how much there was, though, she knew it was her flowering. That had been another kind of betrayal. She knew now trying to burn the bedding had been foolish. Instead, she was left with new bedding, fewer clothes, a room that still smelled a bit like smoke, a cloth between her legs, and the Lannisters knowing it all. If only there was something she could do.

Most of her shoes had not been ruined, but only one pair was suitable for the dresses she had left. She began to remove the laces from a pair of boots, preparing them to be cleaned and conditioned. She did not know when someone would come for them but it did not matter now. With all the waiting for the war, for her wedding, for anything, even one small activity was better than no occupation. Perhaps keeping her hands busy might even help her think. The boots were soon lined up and waiting for… anyone, anything.

Twisting the laces in her fingers, Sansa made her way to the window. Outside she could see the river and the forest beyond. Tendrils of smoke still wafted through the air. Mindlessly, she began to twist and bend and wrap the leather cords. The motion reminded her of the wreaths her mother had taught her to make. On clear, warm days, when the world was at peace, her father would take all the Starks to a meadow in the Wolfswood for a picnic. Sansa knew her mother hated that Jon and Theon got to come along, but usually they went to play with Robb. While the boys and Arya were off swinging sticks at one another, her mother had shown her how to twist grass and flower stems and young sapling branches into circles. Smaller ones would be made into bracelets while larger ones were placed on heads as crowns. By the time they went home, every last Stark, including Jon and Theon, were all crowned in wild flowers and leaves. She missed those days.

Now it was the laces of her boots being made into these circles. She wished she had something to decorate the brown leather. A bead or jewel would add a bit of sparkle and shine. A flower was simple and would soon wilt, but the color would be lovely. When she finished, however, she decided the leather on its own was sufficient. The bracelet it made was much too large for her little wrist. She gave herself a small smile, knowing just who deserved such a gift. Her corner of the tower was often ignored so she was easily able to place the circlet where it could be found. She doubted he would want something heavily ornamented as a reminder of her anyways.

At supper that night, Joffery boasted as frequently as he could. He meant to do everything from slaying his uncle Stannis in hand-to-hand combat, to taking his uncle captive and beheading him in front of the city, to commanding from the walls. The few remaining members of his guard stood by and listened passively. Except for one.

Just to the king’s right, Sansa noticed Sandor frowning slightly and appearing to struggle to not react to some of the more ridiculous ideas. The idea that he might hate Joff as much as she did warmed her.

“You smile, my lady,” he broke into her thoughts and her smile immediately fell. “Did something I said please you?”

She couldn’t remember what new battle idea he had been talking about. “It’s just that you’re so brave and just, Your Grace,” she lied. “Every subject should be pleased to have a king as brave and just as you.”

“Of course they should be, if they know what’s good for them,” he sneered. “Only idiots like your brother and my uncle would be treasonous enough to not be pleased.”

“You certainly have the right of it, Your Grace.” She hated the lies as they came to her. Septa Mordane had always taught her not to lie. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I am weary. May I please be excused?”

With a wave she was dismissed, the Hound sent to escort her to her rooms. In the corridor, Sandor held out his arm for her to take. There, at the end of his wrist, was the circle of leather, dwarfed by his large hand. Sansa clutched his arm tightly and smiled again. Only outside her chambers did she speak.

“I’m glad you like the gift, my lord.” She tried to keep her voice low, should there be ears about.

“Who said I liked it?” he growled in return. “A fighter could always use a spare bit of leather. It comes in handy for quickly repairing armor during a war.” She noticed he was unable to look her in the eyes when he said it, and that he was more sober than when he was normally alone with her.

“Then I’m glad you will get some use out of it.” She held his arm as he opened her door with the other. She knew what she had to do, but the thought still saddened her. “I pray the gods keep you safe during the coming battle.”

“Save me your prayers,” he snapped. “I told you before, we’re all killers. Killing’s the sweetest thing there is.”

Sansa watched him, waited until he turned to her. “I shall pray for you anyways.” She slipped inside and quietly closed the door, a tear forming in her eye.


	10. Chapter 10

Sansa cowered behind a building, watching the guards on the gate. If she was going to leave the city, it had to be now. Last night, she was almost found by a gold cloak and had watched as someone else out after curfew had been butchered in the street. This morning, a white cloak had ridden by asking about her by name. She had prepared this time, dirtying herself before sneaking out, so she didn’t bare as much resemblance to the description they gave as she could have. But another night in the cold and filth held no appeal, and getting caught by the Kingsguard held less.

As she watched, few people left the city. Those that tried to enter had to pay and those who did not were turned away. But leaving was what she wanted. An old man pulling an empty cart passed her, appearing to be on his way out the gate. Sansa pulled the filthy hood of her cloak closer. Once the cart passed her, she stepped from the wall, keeping her head down and hoping she looked like she belong with the cart. The hood blocked her peripheral vision, so she did not see the arm grab her until it was too late.

Before she could scream, Sansa was pressed into a small alcove with an armored hand covering her mouth. Her captor’s other hand was wrapped tightly around her other arm, and his chest close to her face, covered in white armor.

“Don’t scream, little bird,” he growled into her ear.

“Sandor,” she sighed as his hand dropped from her face.

“Not another word. It isn’t safe.”

Sandor adjusted the hood around her head, covering her face further. After glancing out of the alcove, he reached his left arm back and grabbed her again, dragging her behind him. She had less than a moment to take in the tavern he had pulled her into before Sansa was yanked up a narrow flight of stairs and led into an empty bedroom.

“What did you think you were doing, girl?” he growled after shutting the door. Without waiting for an answer, he crossed the room, pushed her hood back, and grasped the sides of Sansa’s head, turning her this way and that as though he was inspecting her. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in? Do you know what would have happened if I wasn’t the one to find you?”

Something brushed Sansa’s cheek and she raised her hand to his, feeling a circle of leather around his wrist. Sandor still wore her gift to him. “I was trying to escape,” she said.

“Tired of waiting on Dontos then?” he asked, giving her a hard look.

She pulled away in surprise. “How did you –?”

“Dontos keeps to the new gods, not the old. And you leave the godswood smelling like wine. A dog can tell the two of you were up to something.” He snarled as he all but pushed her away. “Was he not enough of a true knight for you, little bird?” Sandor stepped closer, crowding her. “Did your Florian take too long to rescue you?”

Sansa looked away from his sneer. “I do not think he truly meant to rescue me.”

He gave a quick bark of laughter. “And when did you figure this out? Was it after he enjoyed your tight little cunny?”

The answering slap echoed through the room and caught them both by surprise. Sansa covered her mouth, eyes wide in shock that she would strike him. Sandor watched her from the corner of his eye, his ruined lip twitching. When he turned back to her, his brow was tight.

“Best not try that again, girl. I’m here to help you.”

She could not remember a time she had felt angrier, her stomach clenching tightly and heat rising up her neck. “If you think to help me by casting further insults at me, then please do not.” Her hands clenched to fists at her sides. “You mistook me for a whore once; do not make that mistake again. You are the only man who has ever been in my bed.” She saw his mouth part, though whether in surprise or to interrupt she did not wait to find out. “Ser Dontos is a fool and too craven to help me. There is no one I can trust so only I can rescue myself. Now, please, step aside so I may leave. If I was ever anything to you beyond a whore, then you will not speak of this meeting.”

His arm wrapped easily around her waist as she tried to step around. “Joff ordered the Kingsguard to make you regret running. If any of them had caught you, they would probably beat you bloody. One or two might have even raped you while they were at it. You can’t get out the gates on your own, girl.”

A sudden knock at the door caused her to jump, and Sandor’s arm tightened around her. With a glance towards the door, he pulled her hood back up and gently guided her to a dark corner of the room. He pressed his finger to her lips for quiet, and then turned to the door with a hand on his sword. As he opened the door, a plump, matronly woman bustled in with a tray of food and a ewer filled with something that steamed. Each was carefully set on the dressing table next to the door.

“Some hot water and supper for your… guest,” she spat the last word. The woman shot Sansa a look of disgust. “Is there anything I can get for you, ser?”

In answer, Sandor pressed a coin in the woman’s hand and pushed her out again. When the door latched, Sansa pushed her hood back off again.

“Why does she not like me? She never met me!”

“Keep your voice down,” he growled. “Would you rather she know you’re her queen-to-be?” Sansa had no answer. “No, I thought not.” He gestured to the dressing table. “Eat. Wash. Then we’ll come up with a plan to get you out of the city.”

She eyed him nervously. “Why do you want to help me?”

“Would you rather Meryn Trant found you? I hear he’s particularly eager to hunt you down. Wonder if your courtesies and sers will save you from him.” Sansa shuddered. “The kingdom is at war and a battle is coming to the city. It’s safer inside the walls, but if you want to leave then it would be easier to go during the chaos. They will let me pass if I tell them I was sent to take you to safety.”

The thought of freedom, of the Hound taking her out the gates, caused her heart to flutter. “Can we not go today? Now?”

Sandor shook his head. “The gold cloaks know you’re missing. If they had half a brain they’d be suspicious if I tried to take you now.” He gestured again. “Eat.” He removed his belt and sat on the bed, leaning against the pillows. “This is the last bit of safety you’ll have for a while. Best enjoy it, little bird.”

The stew did not look as appetizing as the feasts she was used to. The first taste had little flavor but it warmed her and Sansa soon finished the bowl. A mug of ale also sat on the tray and was quickly drained as well. Next she examined the ewer and found it full of hot water. With relief, she poured a bit into the basin on the table. She scrubbed at her face and hands until they tingled. She looked towards the bed. Sandor was still sitting on it, legs stretched out, one arm draped over his eyes, the other still hanging onto his sword.

Believing him asleep, Sansa quietly undressed and began washing the rest of her body. The water warmed her skin. Her skin turned red, from the water or her scrubbing she was uncertain, but it felt wonderful to be clean again. As she reached to wash her back, a large metal hand rested itself on her shoulder. She tried to cover herself as it and its partner wrapped around her. She watched as first gauntlets then leather gloves were removed to reveal his rough hands.

“I’ve seen you before, little bird,” he murmured in her ear as he pulled her arms from her body. “There’s no use hiding from me.” The cloth was plucked from her hand and wetted in the basin again. “I will take you while the city is fighting Stannis.” His touch was as soft as a caress as he bathed her back. “No secret meetings, I’ll come for you when it’s time.” Sandor wet the cloth again and began on her legs. “Make your visits to the godswood. Don’t let Dontos get suspicious.”

Sansa flinched when he started to remove her smallclothes. “Please, no.” Her face felt as though it was on fire. “I… I still bleed.”

His hooked nose wrinkled at her. “I know. But even a bleeding bird needs washing.”

The cloth she had worn was nearly blackened, but she was relieved to see the stain was not quite to large as she feared. The bathing cloth also showed only trace amounts of blood as he cleaned between her legs. His face was impassive as he finished bathing her. He tossed the cloth back into the basin with a soft splash when he stood, then quietly fingered her hair. It hung lank about her shoulders, discolored from the ash she had rubbed in before running.

“I need help to wash it,” Sansa whispered.

At his nod of consent, she directed Sandor to empty the basin of dirty water and place it on the low seat of the chair. She hung her hair over it and scrubbed as he slowly poured the cooling water from the ewer. When the water dripping from her hair finally ran clear, she had him stop. She carefully wrung it out, conscious of her body on full display for the man. She froze at the weight of his hands resting on her waist, sliding down to her hips.

“Look at me, little bird,” he rumbled in her ear.

His hands guided her and for a moment she marveled that she did not fear looking into his eyes. Then his fingers were tangled in her damp hair, his lips pressing to hers. She felt herself drowning when he parted her lips and she returned the kiss as if he was the fresh air she needed. He did not taste of wine, as he had the other times they kissed. He tasted of cooked meat, and earth, and himself. She found herself humming tunelessly in delight, which seemed to please him as he pulled her closer.

Her whimper when he broke away turned into a moan as his mouth turned to her jaw and neck. Sansa threaded her fingers through his hair as he began nibbling and sucking at her throat. Each time Sandor’s lips pulled against her skin, a tiny shock coursed through her body and settled at her belly. The wet smacks his lips made each time he released her brought to mind a hungry animal. The idea of being his feast, of satisfying his hunger whenever he pleased, made her head spin.

The edge of the bed against her legs startled her. At her start, he pulled away and turned her around. She gladly let him bend her over to lean on her forearms. The rough skin of his fingers and palms grazing over her body caused her to moan and duck her head. Sansa idly wondered if she had become wanton and ruined completely. The Hound’s hard length grazing her juncture drove all thought from her mind. She pressed her hips against him, hoping he understood her silent plea.

She was soon rewarded in one smooth stroke. She could only grunt as he pushed into her and moan as he pulled away again. In a matter of moments she was sighing and gasping with pleasure. Suddenly, his hand wrapped around her throat, pressing into the same points his mouth had previously sucked at. The shocks of pleasure shot through her again and she leaned into his touch. She did not notice Sandor’s fingers tighten around her throat until it became difficult to breathe. Sansa began gasping for air, wheezing and coughing when little was forthcoming. Each pound of his hips pushed her further into his grasp. Her vision began to cloud and darken, and her body started to feel weak.

And just as suddenly, he let go. The sudden rush of air into to her lungs caused her to gasp deeply and sparks flew behind her eyes. Even her skin felt oversensitive. The hand from her throat traveled down, pinched her nipple, stroked her belly, touched the nub above their joining. With a scream, her very being fell apart.

Sansa blinked wearily, her breaths starting to slow. She found she was no longer standing over the bed, but on the floor. No, she was in the Hound’s lap, his manhood still buried within her. One arm was wrapped around her waist, holding her against him. The other hand gingerly cradled her jaw, touching her as if she were a delicate porcelain figure. His head rested on her shoulder, lips pressed to the juncture of her neck but not kissing. A drop of something wet dripped on her, rolled down her breast.

“I had to,” he whispered into her shoulder.

In confusion she could only mutter “hmm?” His voice had sounded almost apologetic.

“Joff ordered that you be punished. When I take you back, he’ll look for some proof, some bruising, that I hurt you.”

When Sansa did not answer, he unsheathed his knife and held it before them. She raised her arm – when did it become so heavy? – and adjusted the blade until the reflective surface showed her neck. It was dark where he had nibbled her, red where he held her. He had been rough in taking her and she was going to bruise. She slowly lowered her hand to her neck and touched one of the marks. It gave the slightest tingle and her belly fluttered, as if waking up again. She felt herself smile dreamily.

“You did what you must,” she answered.

Sandor wrapped both arms around her and slowly rocked into her. She felt her shoulder grow damp and she carefully raised her arm, tangling her fingers in his hair. As he finished and stilled, he squeezed her tightly, as if afraid she would flutter away.

“Do you remember what I told you, little bird?” His voice was thick and hoarse.

“When it is time, you will come for me during the battle.” A soft kiss on her shoulder rewarded her. “Don’t let Ser Dontos get suspicious.” This time a kiss to her neck. “Keep meeting him in the godswood.” Below her ear. “You will take me home.” He turned her head a pressed a gentle kiss to her lips.

“Yes, little bird. If that’s what you want, I will take you home.”


	11. Chapter 11

Fucking fire. Only fucking cowards fought with fucking fire. He hoped the fucking Imp died leading his fucking sortie against Stannis’ army. Preferably by fucking fire. Sandor didn’t remember where he got the wine, but he took another pull as he marched through the city. He still had a promise to keep.

He was admitted at the gate to the Red Keep readily enough, and the guards to Meager’s Holdfast hardly blinked as he passed. He snatched another flagon of wine from a serving girl on her way to the Queen’s Ballroom. Count on the fucking nobility and high-borns to throw a party while the river burned. They’d probably celebrate as they burned in their seven hells. He drank as he climbed the steps to Sansa’s chambers.

The room was nearly black. Only a greenish glow from the window let him see. He made his way to her bed to wait, nodding off as the hours grew longer. Only the click of the door when the little bird returned was enough to rouse him.

Sandor watched silently as she stood at the window. The wildfire at the river cast a sickly green glow to her skin, while the change in the light made her hair look as if it burned as well. He watched as she backed to the bed, heard her whimper out a word. He sat up carefully, head swimming, and tried to take her hand. He managed to grasp her wrist instead. He instinctively covered her mouth when he felt her flinch from him.

“Little bird. I knew you’d come.” A sudden flare brightened the room for a moment and he could see Sansa’s eyes wide with fear. “If you scream, I’ll kill you. Believe that.” He pulled away and turned for his flagon of wine.

“Is it time?” she whispered as he drank. “Have you come to take me home?”

“Don’t you want to know who is winning the battle, little bird?”

“Who?” Her voice was tiny, as though she was already far away and left him behind. The thought made him laugh bitterly.

“I only know who’s lost. Me.” He took anther drink.

“What have you lost?”

He grimaced. “All.” Her hand on his stopped him short.

“You haven’t lost me.”

“Do you want to go, little bird? North, to your family?”

“The queen’s closed up Maegor’s and the city gates are shut as well.”

“Not to me. I have the white cloak. I told you they’d let me pass if I was sent to take you to safety. The man who tries to stop us is a dead man. Unless he’s on fire.” Sandor felt himself laughing mirthlessly again. “But you haven’t answered my question. Do you really want to go?”

Her answer was a breathy “yes” but it nearly stole his resolve. It sounded so much like her sighs from only that afternoon. He had returned her to the castle to learn Stannis’ ships had been sighted coming in the bay. He had been assigned to kill any who came ashore. Then the dwarf’s wildfire had been unleashed on the river. Men on both sides had run screaming, many burning alive, and Sandor had not been able to get inside the city walls fast enough for his taste. The memory of his own men burning in front of him cooled the need he’d started to feel for the little bird’s body.

“Get your cloak,” he ordered. “We’ll be traveling light.”

He stood at the door and waited, trying to clear his head of the wine. The girl had insisted on changing into shoes better suited for riding. The weight of her hand on his arm brought him to the present. The boots she wore made her walk more heavily and the cloak and hood she wore looked as dark as the night.

“I’m ready,” she whispered.

After a quick glance out the door, he pushed her to the left of him and grasped her arm. She kept her head down and he grasped the handle of his sword as they warily made their way through the corridors. In the courtyard he steered her towards the stables. After saddling the first horse they found, Sandor lifted Sansa on and climbed in front of her. The guards to the holdfast let them through, but at the gate to the keep there was a commotion. Several of the guards were trying to restraint a large, black horse. The animal, however, had other ideas, biting and kicking at anyone who got near.

“That’s my fucking horse!” Sandor bellowed. He climbed from the saddle. “Give him back or I’ll fucking kill you!” He grasped the hilt of his sword to show he intended to make good on the threat.

One of the men thrust the reins towards him. After tying the girl’s horse to his saddle, he took them and mounted Stranger. With a yank and a kick, both horses cantered through the city streets to the Iron Gate. Once out the gate and on the road to Rosby, he kicked again into a gallop. The moon arched overhead as they rode. The girl was blessedly quiet behind him and he checked back twice to ensure she had not fallen from her horse. Each time, she had been clutching at her horse, staring ahead, her eyes wide and pale in the moonlight. At the top of a ridge, Sandor finally slowed to a stop and looked back. The city was dark, silhouetted against the green wildfire on the river.

“It looks like the city is burning,” Sansa whispered beside him. Her own face was in shadow cast by the hood of her cloak.

“If the city burned, it would be brighter,” Sandor responded gruffly. He turned from the road. “Come. We’re going west for a while. Then north on the Kingsroad.”

The girl nodded her understanding and they silently rode on at a slower pace. Her unusual silence unnerved him. Checking on her, he found her looking back at the city, at the hills ahead, or watching the head of her horse.

“Nothing to say, little bird?” he found himself asking. “Thought you’d be chirping away by now. Or do you miss your cage?”

He looked back to find her staring straight at him. It was more disconcerting than her silence. “Am I your captive now?”

He thought about that. She had value as a hostage. He could ransom her and fuck her if they didn’t pay. Sandor glanced back at her again. No, he’d take her to her family. She could fuck herself for all he cared. An image of her naked and sprawled across a bed, touching herself, flashed in his mind. Perhaps taking her hadn’t been such a good idea. Before he could decide on an answer, a horn sounded far in front of them. The both came to a stop and he untied her reins.

“Stay here,” he ordered, handing them to her. “Whatever you do, don’t follow me. If I’m not back by dawn, turn around and go back to the Rosby Road. Ride north, tell no one who you are.”

At Sansa’s nod, he galloped ahead. Over a rise, he was able to see the Kingsroad. On it quickly rode a long column of soldiers. In the dark, many of the banners looked the same, but one was repeated over and over. A lion. Tywin Lannister had come. Sandor hoped the city did burn before the van arrived. Though with the pace they kept, it was more likely for them to join the battle. Fuck them. Scanning the column, another banner caught his eye. Under the moon, it was pale with three dark smudges. He rode over the hill and around the next, getting closer. The smudges were hounds.

Gregor rode with Lord Tywin.

Sandor felt his heart speed up. He glanced back at where he had left Sansa, unable to see her. Looking again, he saw Gregor and his men riding closer. They were surrounded by men at arms, but it would be easy to startle Gregor’s horse, get him out of the line. Once separated from the rest, Sandor could ride in, fight him, kill him. He looked back once more. Sansa was nowhere to be seen, doing as he’d told her. Glancing back at the column, he saw the riders had picked up speed. The front of line had disappeared around a bend in the road, but the rest were nearly at a gallop to join them. He had only moments to make his move, to get Gregor from the line and try to kill him.

*****  
Sansa straightened as Sandor rode his horse at a walk towards her, the sky behind her growing grey with the coming dawn.

“What was it?” He tried to ignore the relief he imagined in her tone.

“Reinforcements. The city is saved, little bird.” He rode to a halt beside her and pushed back her hood. “You can go back to your king.” He grasped her chin and turned her to face him. “Do you want to go back? It’s not too late. No one would know you ran.”

In the light her eyes looked impossibly wide as she met his own. She wrapped both her hands around his and shook her head.

“I want to go home. I want you to take me to my family.”

He wasn’t sure why he did it, but he slid his hand from her chin to her hair. Leaning across the gap between them, he kissed her, parting her lips and tasting her. He felt the weight on his hand change as she let him go. Only moments later, she delicately touched his scarred cheek. He pulled away with some regret.

“I’ll take you, but I’m no hero, little bird. Don’t think me a part of one of your songs. I’m nothing but a dog, taking you home.” She nodded quickly and Sandor pulled away. “Best of we stay off the roads for a while. We’ll ride north for a time, then cut across to the Riverlands.”

He wheeled his horse and led the way. She quickly caught up and bit her lip before simply saying “thank you.”


	12. Chapter 12

Sandor set a punishing pace for them. They had ridden all that first day and by the time the sun set, Sansa had been ready to fall from her horse. She watched as he stripped himself of the white enameled armor, tossing each piece in a different direction. He explained it was to confuse the trail. The only armor he kept was his chain mail and boiled leather. At her insistence, he also kept the stained white cloak and, as the night grew colder, she was glad he did. He refused to light a fire and that first night, he had lain several feet from her. As she shivered, though, he moved closer until they were both covered by the other’s cloak.

After that, there was no question of sleeping together. Some nights, she lay curled in his arms and touched him, exploring her rescuer until he woke. Then he would turn her around and take her from behind, finishing on the backs of her thighs. Other nights, he would touch her under the cloaks until she whimpered and panted and her toes curled. Once or twice, they even woke each other up with kisses and touches. In the darkness of a new moon, he took her the way she imagined a husband took a wife, laying above her, his face buried in her neck. Even then, he spilled his seed on the ground rather than inside her.

Come the dawn, no words were ever spoken of their nightly explorations. In fact, few words were ever spoken at all. Sandor would rouse her gently with a cold breakfast of berries or fruit and they would ride on. During the day, he could hardly look at her, let alone speak to her. Sansa grew bored on the long ride and began to hum. When he looked back at her, she blushed and apologized.

“You promised me a song, little bird.” He snorted. “Now’s as good a time as any. Sing.”

She had been humming Florian and Jonquil. As she sang it, he seemed to ignore her, never looking her way or acknowledging the song when she finished. That night, though, he’d asked her to sing again as he touched her. She struggled through, her voice catching as he touched her here, buried his fingers there, but each time he would still until she could continue on. Finally, she couldn’t continue, clutching his wrist between her thighs as he finished her. As her breathing returned to normal, she felt him kiss her shoulder, then the back of her head.

“I’m not your Florian, little bird,” he said. “Remember that.”

“I’ll remember,” she answered. As his breathing deepened and steadied, Sansa still lay awake, pondering his words.

Several days later, they came across an abandoned inn. After stabling the horses and leaving them old hay to eat, Sandor led her inside the inn. Sansa searched for any scrap of food she could find while he removed his armor. In a cellar, she found a couple casks of wine, some sprouting or wilting root vegetables, and a few bits of meat and bone. She gathered what few bits looked like what would normally be served and carried it upstairs. Sandor watched her carry the food to the stove and start looking for a knife. Once his sword belt was fastened, he disappeared down to the cellar himself.

Sansa found a large block with various knife handles in it. The first she found looked to be too small; the next had a blade almost as large as her hand. She took it and started hacking at the vegetables one-handed. A choking cough preceded a loud laugh and she looked up. Sandor stood in the doorway to the kitchen clutching a flagon, laughing heartily. She found his scars so much less frightening when he smiled. She bashfully looked away and started swinging at the vegetables again. His hand quickly caught hers.

“The little bird had never cooked before, has she?” he asked. Realizing she must have been doing it wrong, Sansa ducked her head and shook it. Sandor took the knife. “Let me do this.”

She stepped away and watched as he lit a small fire in the stove and dug out a pot. He wiped out the dust with the corner of his tunic and poured the flagon of wine into it. After he put it over the fire, he used one of the smaller knives to slice meat off the bones. He threw the bones, then cubes of meat into the warming wine. Next he turned to the vegetables and started separating bits and pieces from what she had already cut.

“Where did you learn to cook?” she found herself asking.

“On campaign. Unless you’re highborn, there’s not enough cooks for all the men. Easier to make your own supper than hope there will be some waiting for you.” He rubbed the roots off a potato and began to roughly chop it.

“Was that during King Robert’s rebellion, or Greyjoy’s?”

He tossed the potato and a few bits of carrot into the pot. “Both.” He glanced at her. “There’s a well outside. If you want a bath, you’ll need to get your own water.” He turned his shoulder to her and began chopping some more.

Outside, Sansa found the well. It took some work, but she was able to pull up a bucket of water. It was heavier than she was used to carrying and by the time she carried it inside, half the water had sloshed onto her dress. He had lit a fire in the hearth and she went looking for a large pot to heat the water in. She found one nearly large enough for Bran to have curled up in, and she rolled it next to the warm fire. After dumping in the bucket of water, she made her way back outside.

On each trip, she caught Sandor watching her, but he said nothing. Instead, she saw him stirring the stew, cutting some stale bread into trenchers, or simply warming himself by the fire. Carrying the bucket seemed to get easier. She found the easiest was to waddle with the bucket hanging between her legs. When she managed to carry in a full bucket with almost no splashing, she grinned. Sandor only smirked at her.

“Do you need help, little bird?”

She glanced inside the pot. It was barely a quarter full. “No. I can do it.”

She made several more trips. By the time the pot was half full her arms were sore and felt ready to fall off. Sandor had pulled the bones out of the stew and was gnawing on one. He gestured to the second.

“There’s still some meat on them. Best not to let them go to waste.” Sansa sat beside him and hungrily began worrying at the bone, the small bit of meat tastier than she had imagined. “I see there’s still a bit of wolf in you, little bird,” he commented.

Sansa realized how unladylike she must look, filthy and greedily chewing a stew bone. She bit more delicately. “I apologize,” she murmured.

He laughed. “Don’t be. You’re not in court and there’s no need to impress a dog. Might need that bit of wolf in you. Eat. Stew’s almost ready.”

By the time she had cleaned the bone, the trenchers were full of the stew. They ate quietly, finishing everything in the pot and eating what bit of the trenchers had been softened. Sandor found a wooden tub and pulled it by the fire, partially filling it with the steaming water. Without thinking, Sansa began to undress, unembarrassed as he watched her. Each garment found their way into the pot of water to be washed and soon she was bare.

He made himself busy as she stepped in the tub. She dunked under the water and scrubbed at her hair until her lungs felt close to bursting. She sat up and took a deep breath of the dusty air. When she began to scrape the dust and filth from her skin, Sandor stepped into the tub behind her. It was crowded, with his knees pulled up on either side, his feet touching one end while he leaned against the opposite. His hands warmed her goose pimpled flesh as he dripped water on her back and cleaned her with his palm. She felt his manhood stir against her, but his touch was not as needy as it usually was. He pulled her against his chest, resting her head on his right shoulder, hiding his scars. His hands continued to stroke over her, cleaning her. It was methodical, as though he did not intend to arouse her, but she found herself craving more.

Before she let herself become wanton for him, Sansa turned around and kneeled between Sandor’s legs. She dipped the bucket into the water and directed him to lean forward and close his eyes. She carefully poured the water down his scalp and gently wiped away bits of dried blood. Next, she tipped his head back and emptied the bucket over him. His wet hair slid from his scars and a new one caught her eye. It was fresh, with bits of scabbing still clinging to it.

“You were hurt!” she gasped.

Sandor turned his head away, keeping his eyes closed. She briefly wondered if he ever felt shy. “That’s the way of war, little bird. Men get hurt. Men die.”

“But you should have said something!”

He glanced towards the ceiling, looking annoyed. “What good would it have done? Would you have had me stop and visit the maester for ointments? We would have been caught, and I would have been branded craven and you a traitor. No, little bird, better to have kept quiet and run.”

He kept his eyes closed and head turned away as she finished bathing him. For once she had a chance to study him. There was no softness to him, not a bit of skin wasted on fat. His shoulders and chest were broad, the latter covered in dark hair that trickled up to his beard and down to his manhood. There were scratches and scars all across him, trailing down his arms and legs. The evidence of the hard life he’d lived made her wish she had known him when he was younger. She didn’t know what she would have done, beyond hoping to make things a little more bearable for him.

Sansa leaned forward and kissed his bearded cheek. Trailing her lips down to his jaw and throat, she brought her hand to the scarred side of his face. Sandor leaned into her touch, opening his neck more. She grazed her teeth on a spot that, on her, always left her tingling. She was rewarded with a moan and his hands at her hips.

“I want you,” he said in her ear. He’d never said something like that and she wasn’t sure what he meant. His voice, though, had gotten rough and rumbly in a way that made something inside her clench with excitement and her breath catch.

“Yes,” she whispered in return.

He arranged the two of them so she was in his lap, legs wrapped around his waist. He didn’t look at her as he gently and tenderly took her. Instead, he pressed kisses to her throat, her shoulder, her arm. But always on the right, keeping his scars from her view. After she sighed her completion, he pulled from her and stroked himself, shoulders tense, until he also finished.

At his gentle prodding, she rose from the tub and sat by the fire, wrapped in his bloodstained cloak. Sandor disappeared through a door and returned with a shift that was far too big for her. It must have once belonged to the innkeeper’s wife, but she gratefully put it on. He took the cloak and her seat while she did what she could to clean their clothes. When they were as clean as she could get them, she dusted off various tables and chairs and draped their clothes out to dry. That last task done, Sandor picked up his sword and led her to a room with a bed. Together, they shook the dust from the bedding and climbed in, curled together. Late in the night, when he woke her with his kisses, laid her on her back, and took her again, she wondered if this is what it meant to make love. She clutched him tighter, hoping.

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	13. Chapter 13

Sansa sat staring at the hobbled horses. Sandor had gone off to find something… anything for supper and she was left with the animals. The first few days, she had been so exhausted from riding she would sleep. Now, though, she was used to the long hours and bored of waiting for Sandor to come back.

She pulled an old apple and a small knife from her saddlebag. There was little worth saving from the inn, but she did grab a couple vegetables and bits of fruit for the horses. She cut the apple in half and fed a piece to her mare. Hiding the other half out of the way, she began finger combing, then plaiting the horse’s mane. She was quite docile and patiently waited as Sansa wove braid after braid. There was nothing to tie them off, so she simply wound the ends around each other before knotting them off.

Next, she turned to Stranger, nervous. The great, black beast was obedient and even playful with Sandor, but around others he was as cruel and brutal as his master could be. In the last couple of days, though, he seemed less antagonistic towards her. She hoped this was a good sign as she pulled out the second apple piece. She gingerly held it out at arms length and took a slow, tiny step forward. Stranger gave no reaction beyond a twitch of his ears. On her next step forward, he bowed his head and snorted. When she step forward a third time, the animal also moved forward, meeting her halfway. Sansa breathed a sigh of relief as he ate the apple from her hand.

When he was finished, she slowly, gently, raised her hand to rub his nose. He seemed to enjoy it, so she scratched higher, up between the eyes. She walked to his side and, rubbing his neck with one hand, began to run her fingers through the coarse hair of his mane. When Stranger did not pull away or try to bite at her, Sansa quickly made one long braid down the length. She fastened the end the same as her mare. She then soothingly stroked the horse’s neck again as she circled in front of him to his other side. This time, she worked a little more carefully, but made another long braid.

Satisfied, she gave both horses a scratch under their jaws and sat down to continue waiting. She didn’t realize she had fallen asleep until she heard Sandor yelling.

“WHAT IN SEVEN HELLS HAVE YOU DONE TO MY HORSE?”

 


	14. Chapter 14

The girl had let out a squeal when she saw the lake. It had been days since the abandoned inn and she had started to ask about staying in another. He’d told her there were few feather beds on the run, but all she wanted was another bath. Now it looked like she might get her wish.

“There’s villages and holdings all around the Gods Eye,” Sandor told her. “Best to stay clear until we know who holds them.”

She agreed readily but their caution was for nothing. The first village they came to was empty, abandoned and burned.

“What happened here?” Sansa whispered with dread.

“War, little bird. Makes corpses of us all.”

“But there are no people. Where are they?”

“Dead or run off. Your brother’s like to be doing the same to Lannister lands.”

Her voice grew indignant. “Robb would never–”

“Robb’s a killer!” he found himself snapping. “I told you before, he’s a killer, your father was a killer, your sons will be killers. If your brother isn’t the one to run these people off, then Lannister men would have so your brother couldn’t gain their support. This is still his doing, even if he didn’t give the order.”

He watched as Sansa set her jaw and raised her chin, and he admired her for trying to control her emotions. “I will teach my sons to be kind and gentle and loving. They will only fight to protect the weak and innocent, only kill when it is necessary and just that they do so.”

Sandor snorted. “Your sons will be weak. Pray to your gods there is no war for them, or they will be the first to die.”

She was quiet after that, riding beside him to the shoreline. They watered their horses in silence and drank heavily of the cool water themselves. When Sansa stripped herself bare and began washing her clothes in the lake, Sandor sat against a tree and watched. After hanging them on branches to dry, she approached him. Her face and hands had begun to darken from days in the sun, but her limbs and body still retained their milky hue. Her hips rolled and swayed like a woman, and her breasts had grown round. A small part of him wondered if anyone else in King’s Landing had noticed her becoming a woman. His cock stirred and began to harden as she stood naked in front of him.

“Do you wish your clothes washed, my lord?” She still sounded angry.

In response, he tossed her the stained cloak and began peeling off his maille and leather. After he peeled his tunic off, she approached at last to help with his boots and trousers. Finally, she bundled up his clothes and returned to the water to scrub them. When those were hung as well, she walked into the water until it lapped at her thighs. She sank down and began scrubbing herself before rising again and walking deeper into the water.

“What are you doing, little bird?” Sandor called.

She looked nervous as she turned back to him. “I am going for a swim,” she called back. She waded further away.

“If you drown, I’m not saving you.”

This time she grinned at him. “Come join me. The water is lovely.” With that, she sprang up and arced forward into the water, hands together. Moments later, she resurfaced even further away, soaking and giggling. “Come on!” She had to yell for him to hear her.

Sandor rose and made his way into the water. When it reached the middle of his calves, he sat back down. The water was cold! As he watched, she swam back and forth, diving deep to return to the surface with a splash and a giggle. The excitement colored her cheeks in a way embarrassment and arousal never could. She’s pretty when she smiles he decided. He began pondering what sort of husband her brother the wolf-king would give her. A foolish man would only want heirs from her and would give her a dozen children, never enjoying her. The thought of her flat belly rounded with child, her hips grown wide from multiple births, pleased him. A selfish man would give her no children, locking her away for only himself. The thought of keeping her hidden away, like a secret treasure, also pleased him.

His thoughts were broken by the girl swimming close to him. It was shallow enough for her to stand, but she stayed low, her head and back the only parts of her above water. Her face looked concerned and he imagined fucking her until she smiled. He knew she pictured some future husband, a handsome and brave lord or knight, but for now he let himself believe her sighs were for him.

“Sandor, won’t you swim with me?” she asked. He gave an indifferent shrug. “If you don’t know how I can teach you.”

Sandor rolled his eyes. He didn’t need some slip of a girl teaching him how to swim. He stood and waded past her before diving into the water. With a few kicks, he broke the surface and turned to face the shore again. This time, Sansa appeared to be the one sitting, mouth dropped open in surprise. As their eyes locked, she gave a grin and swam out to him. As they both tread water, she wrapped one arm around his neck and pressed her lips to his. It was the chastest kiss they had shared in a long time and he wrapped his arm around her waist. With another kiss, he flipped her over his shoulder with a splash. As he swam away, he heard her break the surface spitting and laughing. Turning around, he saw her watching him, a grin on her face.

“That wasn’t fair!” she shouted to him.

He shrugged and made to swim away. Instead, he dove under the water, turned, and swam back to her. Reaching her legs, he gave a quick yank to pull her under and swam off again. He broke the surface too soon, feeling her hands on his head, pushing him back under. He gave no resistance and let her dunk him until she let him go. Coming back up, he wrapped one arm around her again and pulled her close. His cock stirred as she sighed into his kiss. As they pulled apart, though, her hand sharply slapped the surface of the water, splashing him.

“Do that again and I’ll fuck you bloody,” he growled at her.

Sansa's eyes widened momentarily before she bit her lip and grinned as she splashed him again. He yanked her close and began paddling for shore. As the water became shallower, Sandor stood and draped her over his shoulder. When the water was around his calves again, he put her down facing away from him. He arranged her on her hands and knees, the water licking just below her cunt. He knelt behind her, stroking her slit. He released his own groan as his finger delved into her warmth. With just a few strokes she was bucking against his hand, moaning and pleading for “more, please.”

He took himself in hand and gave two rough strokes to bring himself to full hardness. After lining up, he thrust in one smooth slide. The water splashed around them as he fucked her. The stark contrast between her hot cunny on his cock and the cold water sloshing against his balls overwhelmed him and he pressed harder into her. When she shuddered and squeezed around him in release, Sandor almost lost himself. At the last second he pulled away, covering the tops of her thighs with his seed. For a moment, he felt as though he really was nothing more than a dog, marking what he thought was his. With a bit of water to wash it away, the thought was gone.

With more care than before, he cradled her in his arms and carried her to a tree. With one of the cloaks wrapped around them, Sansa climbed into his lap and he felt his back stiffen. She was on his left, facing his scars. No matter how he turned his head, there was no hiding them.

“When did little birds start learning to swim?” he tried.

She snuggled into his chest. “Mother learned when she was a little girl at Riverrun. There’s hot springs all around Winterfell and she taught us how to swim. Rickon hasn’t learned yet, though. He’s too young.” Sansa shivered and curled closer. “The lake is colder than the springs.”

He held her tighter, trying to warm her. Without thinking, Sandor began to run his fingers through her damp hair. It was already starting to dry and curl around her. When she quit shivering, he left her by the tree wrapped in the cloak and wadded back into the lake. With a great deal of patience, he was able to grab a couple of fish for supper. Risking a fire, he cooked them both and they ate well. Afterwards, Sansa pulled him back into the water for a lazy swim. At one point, she floated past him, her hair a watery halo of flames around her head. When they made their shivery way back to the tree and wrapped back in the cloak, she seemed to be the one fucking, climbing into his lap and kissing him with her blue lips as she rode him to her own satisfaction. Once he spilled against her belly, she curled back into him.

“When you take me home, I hope you choose to stay,” she whispered into his chest.

“Why would I do that?” he rumbled. She simply held him tighter. “If I stay and your brother finds out I’ve had you-”

“I won’t tell,” she interrupted.

Sandor rolled his eyes. “If your brother finds out, he’ll either kill me, or make you marry me.”

“I’d be a good wife,” came the choked answer.

“And I’d make a shit husband. He probably already has some loyal lord lined up for you, ready to give you all the children you could want. Best I get you home and leave. And your brother never find out.”

He felt her nod and he pulled her tighter. If he was her husband, he’d be a selfish fool.


	15. Chapter 15

After that first afternoon at the lake, Sandor turned their horses south to make their way around. At her quizzical look, he explained Harrenhal was held by the Lannisters and following the lake south would let them cut across country more easily once it turned north again. Sansa had agreed readily to that. Her mood also seemed brighter as she sang every day and swam in the lake each time they stopped for the night. Without maids to keep it tame, her hair started to wave and curl at the ends. At night, he found he enjoyed making it twist around his fingers, the silk tangling around and holding his hand in place. The second day, her skin was an angry red from being in the sun, and far too sensitive to touch. After that, the color faded to a light tan. When he pointed out she was no longer a maiden nor fair of skin, she simply blushed. He regretted the comment when he found her watching him more often, looking as if she wanted to say something but didn’t have the words or thought it discourteous. Her blue eyes watching unnerved him.

At the south end of the lake, they came across a river overflowing its bed from recent rains. He tied her horse’s reins to his saddle and swam the horses across. Their boots and legs were soaked by the time they reached the other side so they stopped early that day to dry off. She crouched across the fire from him naked save for her cloak. She nibbled on the squirrel he cooked for supper as she studied him, as if trying to gather up some courage.

“Are we lovers?” she asked at last. The question threw him completely off guard.

“What?”

“Are we lovers? We aren’t married. Songs and stories talk about knights taking maids for lovers.”

Sandor rolled his eyes and groaned in annoyance. “I’m not a knight and this isn’t a song, little bird.”

“But what am I to you if not your lover?” she persisted.

He looked away from her inquiring eyes and thought it over. Dogs don’t have lovers, but they do have something else. “My mistress,” he answered.

He almost wished he could take it back when he saw how crestfallen she was. He almost wished he had lied, that he had given her another answer. But he also told her dogs didn’t lie, that he wouldn’t lie to her. That night, he simply held her. She tried to hide her tears and muffle her sniffles by turning her back to him, and he pretended he didn’t know.

The following morning, her smiles and songs were strained, but he said nothing about her attempts at cheer. She fell silent, though, when they came on the next village. Much of it was burned, with a small keep that had been scorched recently. He was ready to ride past when she stopped him.

“There might be something useful in the keep,” she pleaded.

“It’s likely all burned.”

“Stone doesn’t burn. As long as the fire didn’t get inside, the maester’s quarters might have some herbs we can use or…” Sansa bit her lip and looked away.

Sandor didn’t know what herbs she could possibly want, but he agreed and rode them into the gates of the keep. That’s when they found the bodies. It was only a small group of men and boys, not enough to have held the keep against attackers. The bodies were partially burned and nearly rotted. One still bore the remnants of a cloak, the color black most likely from soot and smoke. Sansa whimpered and closed her eyes in distress. He dismounted and took the reins of both horses, leading them to where the stables once were. He pulled her down and set her behind a stone wall and told her to wait as he disposed of the bodies. There was no time to dig a grave and bury them, so instead he pulled them into a pile and carefully pulled loose stones from the curtain wall to cover them. Once completed, he was surprised when the girl appeared beside him and roughly drew the sign of the Seven onto one of the rocks with a bit of charcoal.

“Though these men may have been enemies in life, please look after them equally in death,” she whispered to the pile of rubble.

“Why would you pray for men you never knew, little bird?” he asked as she rose.

Her eyes were sad when she looked up at him. “There may not be anyone else to pray for them.” She looked towards the main building of the keep and sighed with resignation. “We are here because I wished it. I suppose it would be a waste to not look.”

He followed close behind her, prepared for more bodies or perhaps a survivor. The door to the great hall was gone, but the fire had not reached far inside. He pointed to the lord’s seat on the dais.

“Wait there,” he ordered. “I’m going to look around, make sure it’s safe.”

She nodded and climbed the steps. Once she was seated, Sandor made his way up the stairs built into the wall. The stone was worn and crumbled on the edge, but was sturdy enough to carry him up to the next level. Here, though, he was more uncertain. The wood looked dry and rotted in places. Whoever held this keep had either not taken care of it or fled months ago. He slowly inched along, testing the floorboards with his sword before stepping. The first room he came to looked to belong to the master-at-arms and he grabbed a few extra knives and a bedroll. The second was had children’s things, and the third was rows of beds, trunks thrown open and anything useful gone. He jumped when he found Sansa waiting for him outside the room.

“I thought I told you to wait downstairs,” he growled.

“I-I needed…” She blushed and looked down at her hands. She was clutching a small bundle of cloths and rags. Understanding began to dawn for him.

“Are you bleeding?”

“No, not yet. I wanted to be prepared.”

He nodded and sheathed his sword. “Stay close,” Sandor said as he clutched for her wrist. With a quick squirm, she held his hand with her own. He could find nothing to say as he guided her along the corridor.

In the highest room of the keep, they finally found the maester’s quarters. The ravens were gone and papers and books strewn about, but many of the vials of herbs and potions were untouched. He watched as Sansa darted forward and started looking over each. Many of the labels were worn or missing, so it was difficult to tell what was safe and what was poisonous. She wisely kept the lids on them and only examined the contents through the glass. Sandor turned and started sorting through drawers, looking for his own needs.

“I’m not your Ser Galladon,” he found himself muttering.

The clink of the jars stopped. “What did you say?”

He chanced a glance at her stricken face, then looked away again, cursing himself for saying anything. “I said I’m not your Ser Galladon. One of your maids found the letter in your brazier and brought it to me.”

“I-I thought I had burned it.” The bottles started clinking again and when he looked her hands were shaking. He turned back and found what he was looking for.

“Not well enough,” he said, stuffing his prize into the pouch on his belt. “It was singed, but still legible.” He continued to dig, even as the bottles stopped clinking again. It was easier than seeing the look on her face. “It was wise for you to not sign it. Joff took it before I could read it. Started calling me Ser Galladon and asking to see Just Maid and who the Maiden was that could love a dog. Word of your disappearance in the night was the only thing that could distract him.” He froze at the weight of her hand on his shoulder.

“I apologize for the embarrassment my words caused you.” Sandor straightened and turned. Sansa looked deeply repentant as she looked up at him. “I only meant to thank you for your valor in protecting me. I was unsure how to get the letter to you, so I burned it instead.”

He felt his blood heating up at her words until he boiled over. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not a knight? There are no true knights, no valor! Just killing and war!” He fisted his hands in her hair and kissed her hard on the mouth. She stood rigid against him and made a painful squeak when he pulled her back to arms’ length by her hair. “Would a knight kiss his lady fair like that?” He pulled her close again, tongue delving deeply inside before he pulled away again. “What do your songs say, little bird? Do heroes do this?” He grazed his teeth along her throat before sucking at her pulse. “Do lovers fuck like this?”

He roughly turned her around and bent her over the table he had been looking through. He flipped her skirts over her waist and pulled a glove off with his teeth while his other hand pressed her into the table. He plunged two fingers into her and he growled at the feel of her. She whimpered as he pumped his fingers into her. He fell to his knees and lapped at her folds. She was warm and wet, salty and sweet. Sandor sucked and licked at her folds as her moans and whimpers filled his ears until her knees weakened and shook.

Standing, he turned Sansa around and kissed her as deeply as before. This time, she reached out to him and returned the kiss. In a swift movement, he lifted her to the edge of the desk and stood between her legs with her skirts again hiked up to her waist. He broke away to unlace his trousers. As she watched, he pulled the sheath he’d found from his pouch.

“What is that–” she started inquisitively.

He slid is fingers into her scalp and pulled her hair again. “Shut it and watch,” he snarled. Releasing her hair, he slid the sheath over his cock and tied the ribbons at the base. Grabbing tightly to her hip, he roughly thrust into her. He began to pound into her as he braced against the table. It was disappointing that the sheath blocked him from the feel of her wetness, but her tightness and heat still had him groaning his release into her throat.

Sandor panted tiredly as Sansa combed her fingers through his hair and grazing his scalp with her nails. His hand bracing against the table came up to her back and he held her, the anger suddenly gone.

“Lovers are gentle, little bird,” he muttered, apologetically kissing the darkening bite on her neck. “Your true knights would keep you a maid.” He pulled from her and removed the sheath. “You will have a husband that only wants you to give him heirs.” He squeezed the sheath, his seed dripping to the floor. “A lover would give you those bastards.” He gestured to the mess with his head.

“A mistress would bear your bastards gladly,” she answered.

Sandor was struck dumb as she squeezed passed him and gathered the cloths she found before leaving the room. Only as she curled into his arms that night, his fingers twisting in her hair, did he finally find a response.

“An obedient dog would do as his mistress commanded,” he whispered to her sleeping form and the dark forest beyond them.


	16. Chapter 16

The day after the castle, Sandor said they had to rest the horses and they were going stay by the lake for a day. She said nothing but Sansa was relieved. After he had taken her so roughly against the table, she was sore and riding to their current camp had been uncomfortable. She was also still angry at him for calling her his mistress. A mistress never bore trueborn sons. Her father had a mistress once and now her bastard brother, Jon, was a member of the Night’s Watch. As a highborn lady, she was meant to have legal sons. But the Hound’s lie came to light when he used a sheath to keep his seed from being left in her. She was not his mistress if he could not even use her like one.

After a small breakfast of squirrel and berries, Sandor leaned against a tree and opened a wineskin. She cringed as he took a long pull from it.

“I’m going for a walk,” she said.

“Stay within sight,” came his gruff response.

He was always harsher and spoke more roughly when he had been drinking. On the other hand, the first time he kissed her he had also been drinking. It surprised her that it had been only six months ago that she first tasted him. It seemed a lifetime ago. Her father not two months dead, her sister missing, no way to get home. She had thought she was completely alone.

And then he had kissed her. It was so different compared to his kisses now. Tentative and gentle as opposed to needing and insistent. But that was when she was wondering if she truly was alone. He had done what he could to protect her from Joffrey, had given truth to her lies, kept their secret, and treated her gently. Now, he held her close at night, waited until she cried her release before seeking his own. He was open with her at the abandoned inn, playful that first day on the lake.

His words contradicted everything, though. He called her his mistress, but took pains to give her no baseborn children. At times he was tender with her, but spoke of leaving her as soon as they found Robb. The thing that hurt the most, still, was the way he spoke of them never being married, as if the thought of spending his life with her was repugnant. Even now, tears started to well in her eyes remembering it. She quickly brushed them away, feeling foolish. Of course they would never marry. Robb wouldn’t allow it, with Sandor having been sworn to the Lannisters and born to a lesser house.

Sansa glanced back the way she came. She was not able to see Sandor for the trees and shrubs, but one of the horses (she could not tell which) flicked its tail near where she knew him to be. Satisfied he would be with the hobbled horses for some time, she made her way down to the shore. After a quick rinse, she pulled her rough shift back on. She hated the way it looked, so plain and ugly. But by the time they reached the inn, her own pretty dress was too short and getting too tight around her chest and hips. The innkeeper’s dress was also short, but she could breathe more easily in it. They also found a loose fitting skirt and bodice she wore over top. She smiled and felt her face start to flush as she remembered how Sandor frequently liked to untie the bodice in the night and slide his hand down the neck of her dress. Usually, he did nothing more than hold her breast, but the intimacy of the gesture warmed her more than the shared cloaks did.

She tried to remind herself that she was angry at him, that he had hurt her with his easy rejection of a future life. It was difficult, though, when she remembered how regretful he would look after unintentionally hurting her. It was not kind to punish him when he was always harsher to himself than she ever could be. Calmer than when she set out and determined to show she forgave him, Sansa made it back to where Sandor sat with the hobbled horses.

As she got closer, though, she heard struggling, dogs barking, and incoherent shouting. She ducked behind a tree, nervous. Hesitantly, she made her way around the tree and crept to the next. From here she was able to peek around and see the camp. Sandor was up and staggering, a small circle of men around him with dogs behind and darting around them, snarling and barking. Each time one of the men drew close, Sandor swung at him, but kept missing as his opponents kept darting away at the last moment. She saw his belt and sword out of his reach beyond the circle. She knew if he could reach his sword he would be able to fight them off.

Gathering what bit of courage she could find, Sansa darted behind the next tree, carefully moving toward the sword. After a moment to steel herself, she started for the next, only to be stopped by a tight hand around her wrist. She shrieked in surprise. Turning, she found herself face to face with a vicious looking man. In a flash, he had her pressed into a tree, one hand covering her mouth and smothering her.

“Does the Hound have a sweetling, then?” he snarled at her. She tried fighting against him, but he was strong and her struggles subsided. He glanced around the tree he held her against. “Got him in hand, boys?” he called. After a moment there came an answer of “aye.” “No use in screaming or struggling, so don’t even try, understand?” At Sansa’s nod, he took his hand from her mouth and pulled her into the clearing. “Look what I found,” he said. “The dog’s got hisself a bitch!” The men cheered, but Sandor was dangerously still, bound by ropes.

“She’s a highborn lady, you fucking shit. You won’t touch her if you know what’s good for you,” Sandor growled.

“Is that right?” the leader asked, then turned back to Sansa. “Are you a highborn?” She nodded. “What’s your name, then?”

Sandor’s face was completely unreadable. “S-sansa Stark,” she stammered.

“Oh, a Stark, eh? Unfortunately, I hate Stark men almost as much as Lannister. I ought to just let my men have you right here and now.” Her heart froze and Sandor struggled in his bonds. “But highborn women can be ransomed if we don’t fuck ‘em. So we won’t. For now.”

Sansa’s hands were bound behind her back. While the leader held a knife to her throat, Sandor was released long enough to remove his armor and be searched by the other men. Anything of value was taken. After he was tied again, they were both made to mount their horses. Even these had been taken captive, tied to a pair of horses she did not recognize. While the equipment was being distributed, Sandor leaned to her.

“Are you hurt, little bird?” he whispered.

“No,” she said just as quietly. “He just scared me. I was trying to get to your sword so you could fight them.” Sandor nodded and started to lean away. “Why did you tell them I am a lady?”

He grimaced and looked away. She thought he was not going to answer but then he turned back. “So they wouldn’t rape you. Men like this will take any warm cunt they can find, but you’re worth more to them as ransom so long as they think you’re a maid.”

She shuddered, knowing what would happen if they found out she was not.

The second day as captives, the outlaws’ leader, who called himself the Huntsman – the others called him Mad Huntsman behind his back – removed Sansa’s bonds and gave her the reins to her horse. He said it was to show he trusted her to not run. With Sandor still tied and surrounded by outlaws, she knew there was no trust, but simply knowing she would be too scared.

Several days later, as dawn broke, they at last came to a town. A pack of dogs joined the ones with them and followed their party through the streets, barking and growling loud enough to wake any inhabitants. So many of the buildings had been burned or half destroyed, Sansa doubted very many lived in the village. Nearing the center, faces did begin to peek out from upper floors, so perhaps more people lived here than she thought. Then she saw them.

Large crow cages hung in the square, but each contained a corpse. Three had been shot with arrows and the rest were in various stages of rot. One had great holes filled with maggots where his eyes should have been, another was missing half his face while crows reached through the bars for the rest. She gasped at the horror of it.

“Wolves,” one of the men said to her. “Kingslayer got released and they was off to find him. Started rapin’ and killin’ innocent folk instead. Mad Huntsman gave ‘em justice, though.”

Up ahead, the Huntsman was shouting at Sandor while giving orders for one of the cages to be emptied. The dogs viciously attacked and started tearing at a corpse as it was pulled from its cage. Villagers had also come out to the street and had joined in the yelling and started throwing mud and stones at Sandor. Sansa remembered the last time she was caught in the midst of an angry crowd. She tightened her grip on the reins and looked for any safe place to ride to. A loud smack had her look ahead again, seeing Sandor’s face turned. A rock clattered on the ground before he straightened himself.

It was then that a group of men and a woman came out of an inn called the Peach. The woman fed some bones to the dogs while one of the men played an instrument. Another man, one in a yellow cloak, spoke to the Mad Huntsman, but she could not hear the words. When man pointed up at the roofs of the buildings, Sansa looked as well. Archers stood at the ready, arrows knocked and aimed at her captor. With a nod and a shout, the band withdrew. The man with the yellow cloak approached her horse and took the reins.

“M’lady,” he said with a nod. “Please don’t be frightened. We’re a bit rough, but we mean well.” Behind him, a noose was being looped over Sandor’s head, then a hood.

“What are you going to do to him?” she asked.

“We’re talking him to the lightening lord and the red priest, m’lady, to be judged for his crimes.” Another man approached them with a second hood. “We’ll be takin’ you as well, if it please m’lady.” His tone told her she had no choice, so she allowed the hood to be draped over her head.

After more riding, Sansa was pulled roughly from her horse and led on foot. When the hood was removed, she found herself in a cave crowded with people both young and old. A man who looked vaguely familiar approached and listened as the story of their capture was relayed to him. He bowed to Sansa before addressing Sandor. She was surprised to discover he was Thoros of Myr. She shivered in fear as they spoke, all but threatening one another. Another man spoke up from the roots of a wierwood. When he rose, she made out a worn purple lightning bolt on his armor. She gasped when she realized it was Lord Beric Dondarrion, all but wasted away in the wild.

He explained how they had been sent out by her father to bring the Mountain to justice, but then the king and Lord Stark both died. He said they now were knights defending the realm. Then Thoros said something that truly terrified her.

“You will die soon enough, dog,” he said to Sandor, “but it shan’t be murder, only justice.”

When Sandor challenged their intent, members of the hall started calling out names. She did not know any of them. Where they family? Friends? How did these people know so many who had died? And how many of them were Sandor’s? He once told her killing was the sweetest thing there was, but she never thought he would do so for anything other than duty. Where any of these people his victims? She was relieved when it came to light that they had died at Lannister hands but not his. Surly they were free to go since he had not done anything wrong.

In his anger and frustration, Sandor yelled at the group. “You lie like knights, maybe you murder like them.”

“Say what you mean, Clegane,” Ser Beric responded calmly.

“A knight’s a sword with a horse. The rest, the vows and the sacred oils and the lady’s favors, they’re silk ribbons tied round the sword. Maybe the sword’s prettier with ribbons hanging off it, but it will kill you just as dead. Well, bugger your ribbons, and shove your swords up your asses. I’m the same as you. The only difference is, I don’t lie about what I am. So kill me, but don’t call me a murderer while you stand there telling each other that your shit don’t stink. _You hear me?_ ”

It was then that a small boy broke through the crowd. “You _are_ a murderer!” he screamed. “You killed _Mycah_ , don’t say you never did. You _murdered_ him!”

Something in the name or the voice tickled a memory for Sansa, but it was Sandor who spoke. “And who was this Mycah, boy?”

“I’m not a boy! But Mycah was. He was a butcher’s boy and you _killed_ him. Jory said you cut him near in half, and he never even had a sword.”

Sansa gasped, remembering at last. “ _Arya?_ ”


	17. Chapter 17

Arya stared at the woman who came in with the Hound. How did this stranger know who she was? The woman was too tall and thin for her dress, and her hair hung dirty and lank well past her shoulders. In the firelight, though, she did not look as tan as the other women in the cave, and her hair was almost the right shade of auburn. Her cheekbones were high under bright blue eyes.

“Sansa?” she choked. Her sister’s eyes grew wet with tears as she nodded. “Sansa!” Arya gasped in relief as she threw her arms around Sansa. She was taller than Arya remembered, with wider hips and a fuller chest. Her own vision grew blurry as long, slender fingers began to card through her hair. She buried her face in the rough wool bodice as she realized it was tears.

A barking laugh made them both jump. “Don’t you know you’re dead?” Clegane asked.

Arya pulled away and stood before him. “No, _you’re_ dead.”

Harwin took her by the arm and bowed to Sansa before pulling them both away. Lord Beric questioned Clegane on Mycah’s death. Arya’s blood boiled as she heard the old lie of Mycah attacking Joffrey and she tried to pull from Harwin.

“That’s a _lie_! It was me. I hit Joffrey. Mycah just ran away, like I told him. Sansa was there. Tell him!”

But Sansa only looked wide-eyed between her and the Hound. The big man just stood and watched them, eyes hard. Lord Beric turned back to him.

“Did you see the boy attack Prince Joffrey?”

“I heard it from the royal lips. It’s not my place to question princes.” Clegane jerked his hands to Sansa. “The little bird told the same tale when she stood before your precious Robert.”

“She lied,” Arya interjected, angry at her sister all over again. “It wasn’t like she said. It _wasn’t_.”

Lord Beric turned to Sansa now. “My Lady?” he prompted. She looked uncertain as she glanced back at the Hound before answering.

“I-I apologize,” she started. “It was a long time ago and happened so quickly. I remember Prince Joffrey got hurt, and I wanted him to love me, so I agreed to his story.”

Thoros pulled Lord Beric aside to speak in low whispers while Arya seethed. Of course Sansa would defend Joffrey even now, after he killed their father. But they had to kill the Hound. She had prayed for it!

Beric Dondarrion returned. “You stand accused of murder, but no one here is able to speak the truth or falsehood of the charge, so it is not for us to judge you. Only the Lord of Light may do that now. I sentence you to trial by battle.”

“Who is the Lord of Light?” Sansa whispered. Arya shrugged angrily.

“Prove your innocence with a blade, and you shall be free to go,” Lord Beric continued.

The Hound laughed. “So who will it be? The brave man in the piss-yellow cloak? How about you, Huntsman? You’ve kicked dogs before, try me. But I warn you, I bite back.” He seemed especially fierce when he addressed the Mad Huntsman.

“It’s me you’ll face,” said Lord Beric Dondarrion.

Arya felt Sansa shudder next to her. They both remembered the tales that Lord Beric couldn’t be killed. Clegane was given his sword and shield, but denied armor. When Lord Beric removed his own, Sansa gasped and Gendry sucked in his breath. A puckered crater marked the Lightning Lord’s chest and when he turned for a loose surcoat to wear, they saw a matching one on his back. Arya knew any man would have died from the wound. If Sansa’s shaking hand grasping her own was anything to judge by, she knew it as well.

After praying to the mysterious Lord of Light, Dondarrion turned to Clegane. With no indication of what he intended, he laid the edge of his sword against the palm of his off hand and drew it down. Blood washed over the blade and it caught fire.

“No, you _can’t_!” Sansa blurted out. Arya glanced from the corner of her eye. Why should anyone care how the Hound died, so long as he ended up dead?

Clegane cursed before charging. The steel of both swords rang out as their blades met and the next blow thunked against Lord Beric’s shield. The flaming sword arced and danced, streamers of flame licking into the dark of the cave. Then the Hound stepped back and Lord Beric took the opening. He drove the bigger man back, blows raining down on the shield of painted hounds, cutting the head off one. The two men hacked and cut at each other, the bigger of the two being backed towards the firepit.

“The fire! Behind you!” Sansa called out.

Clegane’s eyes were wide as he forced his way forward again. The swords danced and rang out as they parried while shields crashed. In a flurry of flame, Beric drove the Hound back towards the firepit again. Sansa gave out another cry as he drew close to the fire. The Hound screamed out and charged again, but jerked away as Beric’s sword snapped close to his eyes. He dropped to one knee and threw up his shield to block the next blow.

“His shield is afire,” Gendry murmured beside her. On her other side, Sansa had grown unnaturally still as they watched the flames spread across the wood and chipped paint.

Clegane rose back to his feet and drove Lord Beric back before managing to cut away what he could of his burning shield. A stubborn bit remained strapped to his arm and his struggles only caused the flames to catch his sleeve.

“No, no, _no_ ,” Sansa whimpered.

“ _Guilty_!” Arya shouted with everyone else.

The Hound slashed down as Lord Beric came close and shattered the flaming sword. The cold steel broke through where his neck met his shoulder and continued its deadly slice to the breastbone. Clegane broke away and ripped off the rest of his burning shield before rolling in the dirt to smother the flames.

Sansa broke away from her and Harwin as Lord Beric collapsed to his knees then dropped face first to the ground. Arya watched in confusion as her sister fell to her knees in front of Clegane, hugging him to her.

“Please,” he rasped into her shoulder. His left arm was cradled between them as his right wrapped around Sansa’s waist and clutched at her. “I’m burned. Help me. _Please_.” Arya wasn’t sure which surprised her more: the Hound weeping like a child, or Sansa trying to comfort him.

Thoros ordered a man to see to the Hound’s burns before following Beric’s corpse into one of the tunnels. Angry that the man had lived, Arya grabbed a dagger from Greenbeard and dashed towards Cegane and her sister. The sight of the burns drew her up short, though. The strap had protected a strip of his arm, but above and below was ugly and bleeding. His mouth twitched when he looked up at her.

“ _Please_ , Arya, no,” Sansa choked. “I love him, please.”

Lem jerked the knife from Arya’s hand as Harwin pulled Sansa away from the Hound. He was helped up by Tom and a woman, who started to lead him away.

“You killed Mycah,” she called after him. “Tell them. You did.”

The Hound stopped and looked back at her. “I did,” he said simply.

“Go to hell,” Arya screamed. She turned towards her sister. “Both of you _just go to hell_!”


	18. Chapter 18

Sansa fidgeted uncomfortably in the saddle and tried not to watch the fighting. The damp cloth between her legs and the sight of blood made her feel ill. As Sandor’s arm was tended to, she had discovered her moon blood had started. She awkwardly mentioned it to a woman who led her from the cave. While the cloth she was given was not as clean as she could have hoped, she was relieved to have something. After tending to her needs, she asked after Sandor. They had been caught together and, now that he was declared innocent, surely they would be released together. She had hoped he was willing to take Arya as well. Her heart broke when they said they had sent him away. She had never felt as much pain in her heart since her father died.

Now she was as much a captive of Lord Beric Dondarrion as she had been of the Lannisters. She had felt faint when he emerged from the tunnel his body was pulled into, though now she thought perhaps it was from her blood. He looked tired and worn, but alive, more alive than he should have been with the final blow Sandor dealt him. He led the band of outlaws, the Brotherhood without Banners he called them, to the septry they now sat above. There were enemies in the septry, they were told, so now the outlaws were killing the intruders.

“Stop moving!” Arya whined behind her. “I want to see.”

Sansa rolled her eyes and shifted to give her sister a better view. Her own mare was sent off with Sandor, so now she rode double with Arya. They traded who rode in front, but that arrangement was the extent her sister would talk to her. No, she reminded herself, that wasn’t true, but repetitions of “I hate him,” and “he killed Mycah” was hardly speaking. There was so much she wanted to know. How did Arya leave the city, what had happened to her, why was her hair so short, why was she wearing boy’s clothes? But Arya only ignored her.

Once the septry was burned and the Bloody Mummers gone, the septons fed them supper and offered beds in the brewhouse nearby. Throughout the meal, Arya squirmed on the bench beside her. After they ate, Thoros told the story of how he had brought Lord Beric back from death the first time. Sansa would have found it hard to believe it had been done six if she was not present for the most recent. She grasped her sister’s hand when Thoros was asked about bringing back someone without a head. So much happened after their father’s death, but bringing him back would change so little. She was still disappointed, though, when Thoros told them no.

They both sat quietly as Lord Beric gave comforting words to them before Arya blurted “But what if my brother doesn’t want to ransom me?”

Sansa threw her arms around Arya. “Of course he will,” she said. “Robb wants us to come home, he’ll be happy to see us.”

Arya sniffled but didn’t pull away from the hug. “But I’m not a lady like you. My hair’s messy and my nails are dirty and my feet are all hard. And I can’t sew as well as you can.”

“Your brother will pay child, have no fear on that,” Thoros said.

“But what if he won’t?” Arya wailed. “What if he only wants Sansa?”

Sansa pulled her tighter, suddenly frightened. What if Robb did not want her either, now that she was no longer a maid? What if Robb found out what she had done?  She was worth nothing to him now, she was sure of it. A maiden’s virtue was more prized in marriage contracts and alliances than anything. Sandor had even said Robb most likely already betrothed her to a lord in exchange for help. Her thoughts nearly drowned out Lord Beric’s voice, promising to take Arya to live with a lady, promising to do what he could to get Arya home.

“I will stay with you,” she said into her sister’s hair. “Robb will want us both, but if he is unable to ransom us, I will stay with you. I will not let him pick only one of us.” Arya only sniffled against her.

As the evening wore on, Sansa held her sister, whispering to her how much she was missed, promising to stay with her. Rain had started to pour so the singer played and sang every song he seemed to know about rain. While he played, Arya at last spoke to her. She told of how she was found by a brother of the Night’s Watch, how he promised to take her home to Winterfell, but they got caught and he died. Her sister and several others had run, but got caught by others before being found by the Brotherhood without Banners. Sansa felt there were parts of the story being left out, but she was so relieved to have her sister safe that Sansa said nothing.

Arya stopped speaking, though, when a tall, black-haired boy spoke to their captors. He was close to Joffrey’s age and handsome, Sansa thought, noticing how his broad shoulders seemed to strain his tunic. She immediately grew uncomfortable, remembering how handsome she thought Joffrey was when she first met him. This boy, though, looked as different from the king as night from day. When the boy asked to join the outlaws, Arya broke from Sansa’s arms and stormed to the other end of the room, pouting. Sansa knew she should be excited. Becoming a knight was meant to be a great honor. But how much honor was there amongst outlaws. As the boy swore the vows, Sansa instead joined her sister by the fire, picturing a man who refused to be a knight but held more honor than she had ever seen.

When the simple ceremony was over, a rasping laugh from the door had both Sansa and Arya leaping up in surprise. In the doorway stood Sandor, soaking wet and taunting Lord Beric for making knights and being easy to find. Her heart raced, waiting for she did not know what. She hoped he would pull out his sword and fight for her, or demand she be released to his care and she would run into his arms. Lord Beric calmly asked what Sandor wanted.

“I want what’s mine,” he snarled. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. Her. Surely he meant her. Sansa grabbed Arya’s hand, hoping he understood her silent request. He didn’t even look her way.

“Your gold?” Lord Beric asked.

Sandor snorted. “It wasn’t for the pleasure of looking at your face, Dondarrion.” Why wouldn’t he look at her?

“I gave you a note for your gold. A promise to pay, when the war’s done.”

“I wiped my arse with your paper. Give me what’s mine.” For the briefest second, Sansa thought his eyes slid to her before darting away. Of course he had to watch Lord Beric. The man should be dead, but was alive and well before them, so had to be watched closely.

“We don’t have it. I sent it south with Greenbeard and the Huntsman, to buy grain and seed across the Mander.”

“To feed all them whose crops you burned,” the new knight, Gendry, added. Sansa wanted to stamp her foot in frustration. Why were they talking about coin?

Sandor laughed in their faces. “Is that the tale, now? Do you hear that, little bird?” He turned towards her at last! “Seems you and I been burning fields while running from the king!” He turned back to Lord Beric. “Are you going to judge her, too, Dondarrion? Trial by combat for the little bird for running with a dog? And you going to knight her sister? First eight-year-old girl knight?”

“I’m _twelve_ ,” Arya lied beside her. Sansa almost rolled her eyes. She had to be fourteen in order for Arya to be twelve, and she hardly looked _that_ old! “And I could be a knight if I wanted,” her sister continued. “And I could have killed you too!”

“Then why didn’t you?” Sandor snapped angrily, glaring at both of them. “Do you know what dogs do to wolves?” His low tone made Sansa shudder.

“Next time I _will_ kill you. I’ll kill your brother too!”

His eyes narrowed. “No. That you won’t.”

“You best go,” Lord Beric interjected. Sandor turned back to him.

“I’ll go with what I came for. Give me what’s mine. Your own god said I’m guiltless-”

Thoros of Myr drew his sword, as did two of the other men. “The Lord of Light gave you back your life,” the red priest answered.

“Please,” Sansa whispered to herself. “Please no. I just want to go home.”

Sandor looked towards her as if he had heard before turning again to Lord Beric, mouth twitching. “You’re no more than common thieves.”

The man in the yellow cloak glared back. “Your lion friends ride into some village, take all the food and every coin they find, and call it _foraging_. The wolves as well, so why not us? No one robbed you, dog. You just been good and _foraged_.”

Sandor studied each man, as if memorizing their faces, before looking towards Sansa and Arya. His face was unreadable as he stepped back out into the darkness.

Her heart shattered in her chest all over again. Before, he had not been given a chance to say good-bye. Now, he chose not to. Sansa took a deep breath and turned back to the fire, willing herself not to cry. All he wanted was his gold, the coin he had earned at the tourney honoring her father. Not her. She was meant to be married to some lord her brother picked for her. Why would the Hound ever love her when she was not his to love?

That night, and the nights following, Sansa and Arya slept curled in each other’s arms, just like they had done when they were little. Sansa whispered the things Joffrey had his knights do to her, the beatings and the shaming. She was careful, though, to not speak of the Hound. It hurt her too much to remember his kindness and gentleness to her, tore her apart to think of the times he touched and made love to her. When asked how she managed to escape Kings Landing, all Sansa could say was “he took me,” believing Arya understood who “he” was.

And at night, as everyone slept, she ached. Whether in spite or because of her moon blood, she was unsure, but she ached to have him near, have him over and inside of her. She never knew a woman’s body could yearn for a man as much as her heart could. Sansa loved her sister dearly, but some nights wished Arya’s tiny frame was replaced by one larger, stronger, familiar to her and yet she was still learning it. Instead, she buried her nose in her sister’s smelly, tangled mass of hair.

As the days wore on, the rain came, went, and returned again. At night, Thoros would often stare into the fire they made. Lord Boros’ squire told Arya the priest often saw visions in the fire. Sansa ignored the superstitious blasphemy. When her sister woke her one morning with a story of a dwarf woman who also had visions and spoke of a wedding at the Twins, Sansa ignored that as well. What did it matter where they went? Until Robb paid the ransom, she and Arya were no more than hostages.

At another abandoned village, in another ruined stable, Thoros had a private conference with Lord Beric after staring into his fire. Sansa’s stomach plummeted and she wrapped her arm around Arya when they were summoned over. Lord Beric commanded the red priest to tell them what he knew.

“My ladies,” he started as he knealt in front of them. “The Lord granted me a view of Riverrun. An island in a sea of fire, it seemed. The flames were leaping lions with long crimson claws. And how they roared! A sea of Lannisters, my ladies. Riverrun will soon come under attack.”

“ _No!_ ” Arya blurted beside her. Sansa remained silent.

“Sweetling, the flames do no lie,” explained Thoros. “Sometimes I read them wrongly, blind fool that I am. But not this time, I think. The Lannisters will soon have Riverrun under siege.”

“Robb will beat them,” Arya argued.

Sansa nodded. “He has not lost a battle. I know he will not lose Riverrun.” Her arm slipped from her sister’s shoulders and grasped one hand in both her own.

“Your brother may be gone. Your mother as well. I did not see them in the flames. This wedding the old one spoke of, a wedding at the Twins… she has her own ways of knowing things, that one. The weirwoods whisper in her ear when she sleeps. If she says your mother is gone to the Twins…”

“If your men hadn’t caught me, I would have _been_ there,” Arya interrupted. “I would have been _home_.”

Sansa squeezed her hand. “If the old gods spoke to this old one, then surely she spoke truly. Can you not take us to the Twins?” She wanted to, but did not say that Sandor could have had her home by now as well.

“Riverrun is closer,” Lord Beric answered. “But we dare not go blindly. Would either of you know your grandfather’s brother by sight? Ser Bryndon Tully, the Blackfish? Would he know either of you?”

Sansa shook her head. Though many said she looked much like her mother, she did not want to risk being left with an imposter pretending to be an uncle she never met.

Lord Beric turned to the other men in their circle, discussing what they would do next. Names Sansa did not recognize were mentioned, a Lady Smallwood and Acorn Hall. She had been among strangers for so long in Kings Landing, and now with Lord Beric. Visions of her family danced behind her eyes, taunting her. She saw her father’s death, saw Robb and Mother slipping away. She was even starting to forget what Bran and little Rickon even looked like.

A yank on her arm brought her back to the present as she saw Arya sprinting away. Sansa immediately ran after her, calling her name. The rain outside poured heavily and a flash of lightning made her momentarily night-blind, but she ran as straight as she could, dreading what would happen should she be parted from the last Stark she could find. And she kept calling.

She heard a commotion up ahead, and a young girl’s voice. Sansa ran towards it, hoping to find her sister. Turning a corner, a large hand covered her mouth, smothering her and pulling her back against a giant, mailed chest. Beside her in the dark, Arya was complaining about being hurt, promising to go back.

“Back?” A rough, familiar laugh filled Sansa’s ears and her knees started to weaken in relief. He came back for her! “Bugger that, wolf girl. You’re both _mine_.”

Sansa gratefully turned into Sandor’s chest, held him as he picked Arya up with one arm, and stayed close as he led her towards the horses.


	19. Chapter 19

Sandor drained the wineskin. Fuck but his arm hurt. Dondarrion claimed every one of his fucking outlaws was a knight, but he proved how much honor he had the second he lit his sword on fire. Fucking coward to fight with fire. And the little bird chirped in the corner, all but begging for mercy. He snorted. What mercy did a worthless dog deserve? Not much if the shit job Dondarrion’s healer did to his arm was anything to go by. After pouring boiling wine on it, the woman had bound it, and Dondarrion himself had seen Sandor off.

If he was so fucking honorable, he would have stayed dead. Instead he lived, taking Sansa and his coin. He was driven off like some wild dog, so finding them the first time had not been easy. With two Stark girls, though, he was fairly certain the outlaws would make for Riverrun. After that they were easy to find. Apparently Dondarrion’s new god enjoyed burning everything in sight.

 When the fire of the burning septry finally went down, Sandor rode into the tiny village, past the sleeping sentries. He snorted to himself derisively. Some “knights.” Inside the brewhouse, though, was a different story. The lord who wouldn’t die had a handful of men with him. And the little bird and her wolf sister. If the way she clutched the child was anything to judge by, Sansa wanted to bring her sister. The way the little wolf bitch glared, though, that would be a challenge. Dondarrion also did not appear to want to make it easy either, thinking the only thing Sandor could want was his bloody coin.

In the end, he left rather than fight. It would be foolish to try to kill Dondarrion again.

Now he sat in the dark, watching the small fire in the distance that marked where Sansa and her sister were being held. The memory of the little bird’s wide blue eyes pleading with him in the tavern had his trousers growing tight. Holding his wounded arm to his chest and out of the way, Sandor gingerly unlaced and grasped himself.

He tried to picture her reaction if he had fought his way through the tavern and stolen her. If her sister wasn’t there, she would likely throw her arms around his neck and kiss him. He knew it would be some chaste thing, how she imagined captive maidens kissing their hero knights. But he’s no knight, so he would pull her flush to him, fingers through her hair to hold her in place, and he would kiss her how he needed to kiss her. Sandor squeezed his cock and gave it a pull as he imagined swallowing her surprised moans, imagined as they turned into sighs as she would kiss him in return. He closed his eyes. She had started so awkwardly, when did she get so good at kissing? When did she become so willing to kiss _him_?

His thoughts turned as his fist grew tighter. He pictured her on her back, fiery hair spread around her, eyes unfocused as he consumed her body. He saw himself kiss down her throat, nipping and licking the tip of a tight nipple, before making his way to her stomach. He faltered then, not able to perfectly conjure her smell or taste. In frustration he gave a hard pull and imagined himself over her, in her, fucking her. He growled at himself. His fingers were too rough, his palm to dry, to even pretend she was there. He spit on his hand and stroked hard and fast, trying to hear her cries of pleasure, see her pretty face scrunched up as she called his name.

With a grunt, Sandor released in his hand. He wiped himself off on the leg of his trousers before tucking himself away. Soon, he decided. He would take her from Dondarrion soon, and if she had to bring her sister, so be it.

*****

He watched as Dondarrion’s little band of outlaw knights began to bed down in the rundown stable of a destroyed village. The rain had been pouring all day and he was tired of following like some stray dog looking for scraps. It had to be tonight.

After full dark, Sandor led the horses into the village, avoiding the watch where he could. Turning a corner, he was nearly caught, but he managed a blow to the man’s temple before an alarm could be raised. He left the horses with the unconscious body and made his way around the derelict building. Around the next corner he saw a light and crouched back before easing around for a look.

Up ahead was a stable, crowded with both men and animals, half the roof gone. In the light from the door, he could see the damned red priest and Dondarrion talking to Sansa and the wolf pup. Sandor couldn’t hear what was being said, but from the look on their faces it wasn’t good. Suddenly, the child broke away and ran in his direction, his little bird flying behind, yelling her sister’s name.

Sandor crouched and readied. He was not like to get another chance like this anytime soon. The girls were running right for him, the outlaws night blind from their torches. As soon as the smaller one ran past, he reached out and grabbed her with his good hand. Twisting, he was able to catch and pull Sansa to him with his left. The impact and the little bitch’s squirming jarred his arm and he winced.

“Let go, you’re hurting me,” the child in his right hand whined. “I was going to go back, honest.”

“Back?” he laughed. He felt the little bird start to relax and he loosened his grip. “Bugger that, wolf girl. You’re both _mine_.”

Sansa turned in his grasp and wrapped her arms around his waist as he picked up the sister. The weight of her through his leather and mail instantly warmed him more than his cloak had done without her. Despite the pain, he kept his arm around her shoulder as he took the girls to the horses.


	20. Chapter 20

The rules started almost immediately, though Sansa noted none were for her. After climbing onto her mare, Sandor placed Arya in front of her to ride double and her sister tried to bite him. He said he would gag her if she did it again. The first time he stopped to make water, she and Arya switched places on the mare. Before Sandor finished, Arya kicked their horse into a gallop in an attempt to run away. No matter how sharply Sansa pulled the reins, Arya kicked harder and the horse ran faster. From the corner of her eye his great black horse caught up to them, and she heard Sandor cursing before Arya’s weight disappeared from behind her. At last, Sansa was able to slow her horse to a walk and then stop completely. Turning back, Sandor was yelling at her sister, calling her a “wolf bitch” and cursing her for being so foolish.

“You’ve got two choices, wolf girl,” he growled as she rode closer. “You can ride double with me, or I can throw you on the back of Stranger trussed up like a sow to slaughter.”

“Sandor!” Sansa exclaimed, disbelieving.

“She could have killed you both. She’s not riding with you again,” he snapped.

“I wouldn’t have!” Arya argued, swinging at his arm. His burned arm, Sansa realized, though he hardly flinched. Instead he gave her a shake.

“Hit me again and I _will_ tie you up!”

In the end, Arya chose to ride double, sitting in front of Sandor. They rode hard that day and Sansa was unable to find an opportunity to try to speak to her sister. Her scowl showed that she would not have listened anyways. Sansa tried again when they made camp that night.

“We should speak,” she started as she sat next to her sister.

“He killed my friend. How can you do what he says?”

Sansa took a deep breath, remembering words he had spoken to her once. “The world is full of killers. Father was a killer when he had to be. Robb is a killer. Jon probably is as well. But they never hurt us. They only kill because they have to. Sandor is the same. He would never hurt me, but he will kill if he has to.”

“He had to because you lied.”

Sansa thought it over and sighed. “If I had told the truth, I would have gotten in trouble for contradicting Joffrey. Oh, Arya, he’s _horrible_.” She hugged the younger girl closer. “Every time he heard of Robb winning a battle, he would have his knights hit me with fists and swords and once he had me stripped. I tried to run away and he was going to let the knight who found me rape me.” She shuddered at the thought of Ser Meryn Trant, the worst of them, stripping her bare and raping her. He probably would not have stopped for her screams and cries, continuing until she bled out or fainted. “Except Sandor. He was always gentle and never hit me. When I was stripped, it was his cloak that covered me. He stood up to Joffrey when I was being hurt. He found me when I tried to run and promised to help me. He is a good man.” She hoped to the old gods and the new that Arya did not hear the parts she left out.

When her sister seemed asleep, Sansa gently laid her small form on the ground and arranged a cloak around her. She quietly stood and made her way to where Sandor sat leaning against a tree. He made no indication of wanting her to stay or go, so she sat on her knees in front of him.

“Thank you for getting her as well,” she whispered. “I know she can be difficult at times.”

In the dark, she thought she saw his head move in a small nod. She reached her hand across and stroked the rippled flesh of his burned cheek. A slight pressure to her palm told her he was leaning into her touch. In a wave of relief, Sansa felt herself fly across the space between them to kiss his lips. In a flurry of lips and hands and arms and legs, she found herself straddling his lap, clutching at his shoulders and hair. In turn, he fisted her hair to hold her lips to his while his other hand wrapped around her waist and pressed her flush to him. Needing to be closer, Sansa rubbed herself against him as he hardened beneath her.

Frenzied, Sansa reached for the laces to Sandor’s trousers and fumbled as she unlaced him. Without breaking the kiss, she at last had him out and in her hand. She broke away only for a moment for air before he leaned in and moaned into her mouth. She felt it down her chest and into her stomach as she stroked him. Not wanting to break any contact with his body, Sansa slid her other hand from his hair to his shoulder, down his side. Reaching his hip, she reached under her skirts and pulled her smallclothes and cloth to the side before raising herself up and onto his manhood. With a gasp, she felt herself stretch around him. Impatiently, she rocked against him. Sansa threaded her fingers back through Sandor’s hair and held him as tightly as he held her.

Her completion was a surprise when it came and she went limp against him. She broke the kiss and rested her forehead against his shoulder as he continued to thrust into her. She felt more than heard him grunting into her neck as he finished. Her body still shuddered as he pulled her smallclothes back into place and tucked himself away. She limply let him adjust her so she leaned against his chest, Sandor’s legs pulled up to either side of her. Contented, Sansa fell into an easy sleep with both their cloaks wrapped around them.

Deep in the night, Sansa was startled awake when she fell to the ground. Arya stood over her, with Sandor on his knees clutching her sister’s tunic.

“What’s going on?” she asked groggily.

“The little wolf thought she could kill me,” he growled, not looking away from the younger girl. Sansa realized he had been holding a rock when he tossed it into the bushes. “I’ll give you that one,” he continued. “If you’re stupid enough to try again, I’ll hurt you.”

“No!” Sansa exclaimed, fully awake now.

“Why don’t you just _kill_ us like you did Mycah?” Arya challenged.

Sansa saw Sandor shake her. “Your sister won’t like it, but next time you say that name I’ll beat you so bad you’ll _wish_ I killed you.”

Sansa shivered as she watched him wrap Arya in his horse blanket and tied her. As he stepped away, she draped her cloak over the bundled girl and lay with her.

“Why did you try to hurt him?” she whispered.

“Because he _deserves_ it. And so we can get away. Why do you want to be with him so much? Why do you love him?”

“He was kind to me,” Sansa found herself repeating. “He was the only one there for me.”

“But I’m here for you now. We’re a pack. Dogs don’t belong with wolves.”

She thought it over. “It’s true that dogs are bred to kill wolves. But sometimes dogs change their loyalties and can run with wolves. Give him a chance. Maybe Sandor could join our pack.”

“I still hate him,” Arya replied petulantly.

Sansa could only kiss her forehead before falling back into sleep.


	21. Chapter 21

She hated him. Arya couldn’t understand why her sister claimed to love him. He never spoke courteously to either of them. Sometimes, Arya would ask where they were going and the Hound told her not to talk back. When Sansa would get bored and sing, he never told her how well she did like lords and knights were supposed to. He was gross, spitting and making water in front of them. Sansa said it was because Arya had tried to run so Clegane didn’t trust her, but she knew better. He was rough. Every morning he would dump Arya into the saddle of his horse and at night he would all but throw her off before grabbing Sansa to mount or dismount. At night, he rolled her in his horse blanket and tied her top and bottom so she couldn’t move. And she hated how he looked at her sister, like a hungry dog eyeing a bone.

At night, after Arya was bundled, her sister would sit with her, fingers threading through her hair. It usually hurt because there were so many tangles, but it reminded her of their mother and it was soothing, so she didn’t complain. The worst was when Sansa would try to lull her to sleep with stories or lullabies. She didn’t tell the good stories like Old Nan did, about the grumkins and snarks Arya and Bran both liked. Instead, she told stories about knights and maids and valor while the Hound sat against a tree snorting and making sarcastic comments. Somehow, Sansa was able to not get upset about her stories being mocked. Wanting them to stop, Arya would close her eyes and steady her breathing, pretending to sleep. At that point Sansa would leave her and Arya hated that the most. It meant she was going to him, to sleep with Clegane.

No matter what Sansa said, Arya would never let the Hound join their wolf pack.

So she would wait… then scream. For Sansa’s sake, she would pretend she had a nightmare, usually about their father’s death. Her older sister would immediately come running and hold her, speaking soothingly until she or Arya fell asleep for true. In the morning, Sansa was usually awake before her, ready with their meager breakfast. Nothing was said of her nightly terrors, much to Arya’s relief. She usually couldn’t remember what she had said the night before.

During the days, Sansa started to sing less and less, though. Dark rings began to grow under her eyes and when they would stop to rest, it seemed as if it was harder for her to climb back into her saddle. At one point, Clegane even had to tie Sansa’s horse to his own saddle because she couldn’t control the docile mare any more. And the Hound grew surlier each day. Once, when Arya asked nicely for a song, he cursed at her and told her to shut it. That night he really did dump her from the horse.

After getting bundled, Sansa sat with her like before, but her voice had grown soft and weak. With the Hound sitting quietly, Arya found herself starting to doze off. She didn’t hear or feel her sister step away, but woke with a jolt when she realized the other was gone.

With a slight twist of her neck, she found them sitting under a tree. Their cloaks were wrapped tightly around them, so she could only see their faces, but she hated even that. Sansa was facing the Hound, her mouth open and face scrunched up as if she was in pain. Her breaths were short, labored as if she was trying not to scream or cry out. But the Hound’s face was worse. The unburned side was relaxed, his usual scowl gone. Instead, he was watching her. His face was like… Arya tried to place it. Like Septa Mordane when she talked about the Seven. Like her father as he sat before the heart tree in Winterfell’s godswood. She hated his stupid face for that. Sansa wasn’t a weirwood, she was her stupid sister. He had no reason to look at her like that!

Suddenly, Sansa’s hand flew to her mouth and she bit her knuckles. Hard from what Arya could see. After another moment, Clegane brought his own hand to his face and he sucked two of his fingers. And Arya hated him for looking like he enjoyed what he tasted. Having seen enough, she screwed her eyes up tight, took a deep breath, and screamed and thrashed in her bindings. She did her best to hide her satisfaction when Sansa gave a surprised “oh!” and the Hound cursed.

When she felt her sister’s hand, Arya slipped into the lie easily. “Oh, Sansa,” she whimpered. “I had a nightmare, it was _horrible_! I saw father-”

“Shut it,” Clegane snarled from her other side. He roughly turned her to face him. “Stop lying, wolf girl. She’s not your mother, your nurse, or your septa. Grow up! You don’t need her every second of the day. Let her sleep! And you,” this time he pointed at Sansa. “Get some sleep. You’re half dead! No more running between us. At night, we make camp, you pick one and stay.”

Sansa weakly agreed before the Hound rose and stomped away. She draped her cloak over both of them and instantly fell asleep. For a moment, Arya felt bad for keeping her sister awake every night. But it wasn’t her fault Sansa kept wandering off to sleep with the Hound. If they just stayed together, everything would be fine. Convinced she was right to save her sister from the monster, Arya fell asleep herself.

In the morning, she was pulled roughly from Sansa’s embrace and untied. Clegane gestured for her to keep quiet before giving her a chunk of sausage for breakfast. As she worked at it, Arya watched as he knelt by her sister and gently shook her shoulder. Sansa seemed to wake in stages, first trying to burrow into her cloak before softly opening her eyes and turning to him. He said something too low to hear, but her sister nodded and slowly rose to her feet. A pang of regret hit her as Sansa seemed to wobble and Clegane had to hold her steady.

After finishing their breakfast, the three rode in silence. Reaching a river swollen from rain, the Hound growled at Arya to be quiet when she asked if it was the Blackwater Rush. Sansa said nothing. That night, her sister only kissed Arya on the cheek before curling up next to the Hound, and each night after she alternated who she slept with.

And Arya hated it.


	22. Chapter 22

Sansa could see the rain was making Arya sick. She tried telling Sandor when they bedded down one night, but he said they could not stop for longer. There was also no place to get out of the rain, so she did not to press the issue. Instead, on nights she did not curl up with her sister, she laid her cloak on top of the horse blanket for an extra bit of warmth before curling closer to Sandor.

Now they followed an overflowing river, looking for a town he knew would have a crossing. Once more, Arya asked if it was the Blackwater Rush.

“This river is too small,” Sansa answered. “And we would be going south if it was.”

“South to King’s Landing.” Arya sneezed violently.

“It’s a river we need to cross,” Sandor said. Then “ _Seven hells_!”

The roofs of a few cottages, the dome of a sept, and the upper floor of an inn seemed to have grown out of the middle of the river. Whatever village it was, the rising floodwaters had drowned it.

Sansa turned to him. “Is that-?”

“Lord Harroway’s Town,” he confirmed. He raised his hands to his mouth and shouted. It was then she saw the boat with the two horse heads. There was a small hut on the deck and two men came out at his call. “ _Take us over_ ,” he shouted. When he agreed to pay, more men came from the hut and oared to the shore.

“What are you going to pay with?” Sansa whispered as they waited. “I thought Lord Beric took all of your gold.”

He shot her a look. “Don’t say anything. Either of you,” he added, nudging Arya.

When the ferry ground against the shore, she followed behind Stranger up the gangway. Dismounting, she heard Sandor warn one of the ferrymen before his horse reared and kicked out. The one who took her mare’s bridle was more cautious. She held Arya’s hand as Sandor bartered and threatened the captain to get them across. An agreement reached, the ferryman gestured towards the hut.

“There’s a brazier in the cabin if you want to take your woman and son in to get warm.”

“ _I’m not his stupid son!_ ” Arya interjected. “And she’s _not_ his woman, she’s my _sister_!”

Sandor grabbed her by the collar and gave her a rough shake. “How many times do I need to tell you to _shut your bloody mouth_?” When Sansa touched his arm, he let her sister go and pointed. “Both of you get in there and get dry,” he said more gently.

She wrapped her arm around Arya’s shoulders and led her into the cabin. The brazier glowed with heat. The air was stifling, but it was nice to be out of the cold rain.

“Why must you antagonize him?” she asked as she removed her cloak to dry.

“Why must you do what he says?” the younger girl challenged.

Sansa sighed, already worn from this argument. “I told you, he took me away from King’s Landing. He severed his ties to the Lannisters. He has no reason to take us back.”

“Maybe he changed his mind. And why would he take you away, anyways?”

Sansa bit her lip, uncertain what she should say. Arya rolled her eyes at the silence and made her way to the door of the cabin. By this time the ferry had begun to move.

“Where are you going?”

“I want to see.” Arya slid out the door.

Sansa followed and poked her head outside. The rain still fell violently, splashing up from the river and deck, thoroughly soaking her sister’s trousers and doublet. The ferry carefully drifted around the roofs of the submerged village.

“Come back inside,” Sansa called before closing the door and returning to the brazier.

The deck felt unsteady as they hit the current and she grasped a support beam to keep from falling. Something scraped underneath the boat and the boards rumbled from the force of the horses’ hooves. A shout and snap seemed to cause the boat to turn. Another thump and grind would have knocked Sansa to her knees if she had not held to the beam. With one last violent shudder and a loud _crack_ , the boat quit moving. Peeking out the door, she saw they had at last come ashore.

She quickly grabbed her dry cloak and fastened it before running out to the horses. Sandor easily lifted her to the mare before climbing onto Stranger behind Arya. At his nod, she rode down the gangplank first. She was unable to hear what was said but, looking back, saw the old ferryman getting angrier and angrier before Sandor kicked his horse into a gallop after her. Sansa kept pace as the men from the ferry yelled after them.

“He didn’t pay!” Arya shouted at her. “He gave them Lord Beric’s _note_! He’s just a stupid, lying _dog_!”

Sandor reined up sharply and yanked Arya off the saddle, dangling her in the air.

“I will bloody well leave you!” he shouted.

“No!” Sansa found herself screaming. “Don’t leave her! Arya, please, be good! He’s taking us home! He promised he would!”

Arya squirmed as she was held in the air. “He promised to pay, too, knight’s honor even though he’s _not_ a knight! He’s taking us back to Joffrey and the queen! I _know_ he is!”

Sandor only laughed as he lowered Arya back into his saddle and continued on.

Making camp that night, he still smirked as he gave each of them a chunk of sausage and cheese to eat.

“Tell me, little wolf bitch, what good would it do for you and your sister to get away from me? How do you think to protect the little bird from someone worse?”

“There’s no one worse than you!” Arya insisted. Sansa knew it was unladylike to roll her eyes, but she did anyways.

Sandor snorted. “You never knew my brother. Gregor once killed a man for snoring. His own man.”

“I did so know your brother. Him and Dunsen and Polliver, and Raff the Sweetling and the Tickler.”

“They were ones that caught you after the black brother was killed?” Sansa asked. Arya nodded.

“Caught you? My brother _caught_ you?” Sandor laughed meanly. “That’s bloody sweet. I’ll be sure and tell him that, before I cut his heart out. Now,” he grew serious and leaned forward. “I’ve heard the little bird talking to you at night, telling you things. You think I’m some monster because I cut your friend in two? What sort of monster would save a pretty little bird from getting raped? You best _listen_ to her stories. They’re embellished, but true. I’m not going back to King’s Landing. I’m done with them all. That river was the _Trident_. When we reach the kingsroad, we’ll make good time straight up to the Twins for your uncle’s wedding.” He glanced at Sansa before turning his attention back to Arya. “If he has any wits, you brother’ll make me a lordling and beg me to enter his service. Might be I would, too, if he offered me something I wanted.” Sansa’s stomach twisted, wondering what Robb could offer to convince him to stay.

“He’ll never take you,” Arya snapped. “Not _you_.”

“He has to,” Sansa interjected. “I’ll convince him.” Only in that moment did she realize what exactly would cause her brother to accept someone like the Hound.

“Robb won’t take him just because _you_ love him!”

Sandor’s mouth twisted as he looked towards Sansa. They both knew she would have to say more than she loved him. “If he doesn’t take me, he’d be wise to kill me. No, little bird, if he doesn’t want me, I’ll take what gold I can and leave. Best not tell him anything.”

Hurt, Sansa felt her lips curl into a most unladylike snarl and she stamped her foot angrily. “I’ll say what I want to whom I want!” She turned to Arya, pointing at Sandor. “I gave him my maidenhead!”


	23. Chapter 23

Some part of Sandor knew he should be impressed that the wolf bitch finally quit talking. Instead, he was focused completely on Sansa and what she had said. She had all but ensured the Young Wolf would execute him. This brother of hers wouldn’t saddle his dear sister with a Lannister dog for a husband. Not when there were lords and knights who had proven their loyalties to the north. Not when there were alliances to be made and sealed with a bridal bed. The little bird turned back, still defiant but a glimmer of uncertainty behind her eyes.

“Now you can’t leave,” she stated. “Arya can’t keep a secret and she’ll tell. Robb will make you stay for my honor.”

“No he won’t!” the little wolf spoke up. “Robb will kill him for it! I know he will! You’re a dead man!”

“Your sister’s right, little bird,” Sandor rumbled. “One act of treason does not forgive another.” He rose, every instinct telling him to run. “It’s late. Go to sleep.”

“There’s still some sun, dead man!”

“ _NOW!_ ”

He stomped into the woods, telling himself it was only to make water. Behind him, the wolf bitch was yelling at her sister, snippets of “but why” and “he has to die” trailing back to him. Finished, he folded his arms and leaned against a tree. The little bird’s answers were too low for him to hear but there was no need. She had said she was in love with him. If he ignored it, pretended it was never said, she would have learned it was impossible to love a dog. If she still believed her little lie when he got her to her family, he would have left. Given enough time, she would have forgotten him and become a dutiful wife to some lord loyal to her brother.

Now, by telling someone he’d taken her maidenhood, she ensured she was stuck with him. No amount of threats would keep her mouth shut. The younger sister would ensure the second she saw Robb Stark, she would blurt it out immediately, but he was sure she was too young and sheltered to understand what it fully meant. But the Young Wolf would understand. Ned Stark would have taught him to uphold honor above all else. The little bird couldn’t have known what she was doing, all but making her marriage vows and signing his death warrant. It was only a matter of which her brother preferred.

Silence fell over the woods and Sandor released a breath. He didn’t realize he couldn’t hear the girls any longer. Perhaps it was for the best. Let them get to their brother. He could make for the Saltpans, join a ship bound for… anywhere. The free cities most likely. The snap of a twig broke him from his musings. He looked back and saw Sansa approaching cautiously. He turned away again.

“Where’s your sister?”

“Watching the horses. She’s promised not to run.” She paused, as if waiting for him to answer. “I’m not sorry I said it,” she said firmly.

He snorted. “No, little bird, I don’t imagine you are.”

“You were going to leave me if I didn’t. I don’t want you to go. Even if you had said you would stay as my sworn shield I would have been content.”

“If you would have been so content,” he hated the biting tone his voice took, “why did you just give yourself a husband?” He turned back to her. “By now, word’s probably spread that I turned craven during battle. And I still intend to kill my brother. Tell me, little bird, what do you intend to do with a coward and a future kinslayer for a husband? What would you do with me?”

He watched Sansa straighten herself to her full height. “My father once promised me a husband who was brave and gentle and strong. At the time, I did not think that was what I wanted. I was blinded by the songs and stories I had been told growing up. But it is what I want. You were brave to take me from the city. You were gentle when it would have been easier to hurt me. You are stronger than any knight.”

“I thought you wanted someone handsome enough for stories. A beautiful prince like Joff,” Sandor sneered.

She looked away. “I don’t think I ever loved Joffrey. He was always hateful. And then he had my father beheaded.”

“Is that what it takes? Kill a member of your family and you hate them? Bring me your sister, I’ll kill her. Maybe then you’ll forget this fantasy you have for me.”

Sansa looked him in the eye and Sandor felt himself frozen in place. “You won’t hurt her. You don’t think anyone can love you, because no one has ever shown you any kindness. But I love you. Maybe someday you will learn it to be true.”

He had to try one last time. “And should I go riding off to kill Gregor -?”

“I will wait for you,” she interrupted. “And pray for your safe return.”

“And give me lots of trueborn sons, I suppose?”

“If you wish it.”

“And if your brother should instead to execute me for being the Lannister’s dog who defiled you?”

“I would plead for your life.”

“As you begged for your father’s?” Her sudden tears cause his stomach to twist.

“Yes.”

Sandor sighed, defeated. “I will confess to your brother and ask for your hand. Tell your sister not to say anything. It wouldn’t be honorable for her to be the one to say it.” He caught Sansa easily as she threw her arms around his neck. “Robb Stark won’t think me worthy of you, little bird.”

“I don’t care.”

Arya was still awake when they returned to the camp.

“Hello, dead man,” she smirked up at him.

Sandor rolled his eyes. “I thought I said go to sleep.”

“I will when I’m tired, dead man.”

“If you call me that one more time, I will gag you.”

“Both of you quit,” Sansa chimed in. “Arya, time for bed. Sandor, you as well.”

That night, he didn’t bother to bind the little wolf. He just held Sansa as tightly as he dared.


	24. Chapter 24

Sansa held Arya’s hand as she tried not to fidget. The seat of the cart was uncomfortable but not nearly as jarring as all the time spent riding in a saddle. Beside her, her sister could not stop squirming, though it seemed to be more from excitement to finally see their mother again. She understood and could barely contain herself, but it would not do to appear as though she had lost her courtesies. Sansa glanced over Arya’s head at Sandor.

He had his hood pulled up, but she still knew his burns would be twisted into his usual scowl. He had been worried about running into someone who would recognize him before they could get to Robb. So he had disguised himself in some roughspun over his armor and had pulled up his hood to hide his face. Sansa had her own pulled up as well to cover her hair. With Arya between them, they looked like a farmer with his wife and son. The illusion was helped by the cart containing casks of salt pork and pickled pigs’ feet.

She had not enjoyed watching Sandor acquire everything from a farmer they met by chance on the road. She had tried to keep her face impassive as he took cart, horses, clothes, and casks, but she pitied the poor man to have what were most likely years of work taken at swordpoint. The going was slower, but safer according to Sandor. With hoods pulled up and heads down he said no one would bother them. Thankfully, no one did until they neared the Green Fork. A small group of outriders had approached them and questioned Sandor before waving them on. Arya’s fidgeting seemed to become more anxious and Sansa wrapped her other arm around her shoulders.

“We’re nearly there. Missed the wedding, but might still get something to eat at the feast,” he said as the sound of music drifted through the air.

Passing over the last rise, the river, castles, and camps all came into view at once. Men were drifting all along the nearest camp, but mostly keeping to three feast tents lined up like a longhall. Lights spilled from both castles, as did the music. Sansa wrinkled her nose. The musicians in each castle played a different tune, making a racket rather than a harmony. She hoped the musicians at her own wedding were not so horrible. She idly wondered if she and Sandor would marry at the Twins, feasting on the leftovers of her uncle’s wedding, or if they would marry at Riverrun with her own wedding feast.

As Sandor spoke to another man and was directed to the feast tents, she glanced back to the horses. Stranger had not fought against being tied to the back of the cart, but had behaved more hesitantly than the mare. Arya had insisted it needed a name even though it was from the royal stables and not really Sansa’s. Despite her protests, it was dubbed Perfect Lady. Sansa hated the name because it reminded her of her direwolf, but it stuck. She turned back when her sister started to make a fuss.

“There’s northmen in the tents,” she was saying.

“Your brother will be in the castle. Your mother, too.”

“We were told to find Sedgekins.”

“Sedgekins can bugger himself with a hot poker. It’s your brother I want.”

As they continued to ride through the camp, Sansa looked amongst the devices and faces, hoping to find someone familiar. Up ahead, the portcullis of the closer castle was being raised.

“The castle’s not closed,” Arya piped up. “They said it would be.”

Suddenly, Sandor cursed and pulled up hard on the reins. “Get _down_!” he shouted.

He shoved hard enough on Arya to knock Sansa off the cart. Just as she was getting up, Arya dropped from the cart as well. Sandor had gotten down on the other side and ripped up the seat, reaching for his hidden sword belt. Looking back towards the castle, riders had come pouring from the gate, fully armored and carrying swords and axes. Frightened, Sansa grabbed Arya’s sleeve and pulled her to the back of the cart with the horses. Around them, flaming arrows lit tents on fire and the feast tents were starting to collapse. She grabbed Perfect Lady’s bridle as Sandor cut her loose.

“ _Get on and ride for the trees!_ ” he bellowed before freeing Stranger and riding into the fray.

Sansa turned to help Arya on first and found her sister missing. Looking frantically about, she saw the younger holding a rock. Her voice caught in the throat and she could only watch as the rock was thrown at a charging horseman. She kept herself between the cart and mare, trying to reach Arya as she ran past. Instead the knight chased her around the cart before collapsing with an axe in his head. Stranger stood above her, Sandor astride and sprayed red.

“Get my helm,” he growled.

Quickly, Sansa got the helm out of a sack of apples and weakly tossed it to him. He had to bend to catch it, but by the time he straightened he had become a snarling metal dog.

“Robb…” was all she could say.

“Dead. We need to leave. Now!”

Sansa stumbled twice but finally made it into the saddle. “Arya, come on!” she called.

“We’re _here_. We need to _save_ them!” her sister argued before running towards the castle.

“Aaarrryyyaaa!” she screamed. Perfect Lady jerked beneath her.

“Look at me,” Sandor shouted in her ear. Through the opening in the hound’s eyes, she saw his, wide and pale. “I’ll get her, now make for the trees. I’ll meet you there.” He rode off without waiting for a response.

In a matter of moments, he had caught up to the younger girl. He swung and the flat of his axe hit Arya in the back of the head, causing her to collapse. Sandor draped her limp body across his saddle and wheeled towards the trees without looking back. The sounds of the battle broke through Sansa’s fear and she kicked her own horse into a gallop, meeting him at the tree line. They rode hard into the night, Sansa’s stomach clenching and her vision growing blurry before she blinked it away. At one point he stopped only long enough to silently tie Perfect Lady’s reins to Stranger’s saddle before continuing on again. it was then that she felt the first sobs break from her throat.


	25. Chapter 25

Arya moaned as she slowly regained consciousness. Gods, but her head hurt. Some weird noise caught her attention and she carefully turned her head as she opened her eyes. Clegane was leaning against a tree, head bowed over a bundle in his arms. A glimpse of red showed her it was Sansa, curled against his chest. It was then she realized the noise she heard was Clegane singing.

At least, she thought it was meant to be singing.

His voice was a steady drone, occasionally rising and dropping in the wrong places. The words, the ones he actually remembered, were familiar. She wasn’t able to place the song, though, because most of the words were hummed. When Sansa sniffled wetly, his arms tightened around her and his voice rose a tiny bit. With a start, Arya realized the song was Sansa’s favorite, about Florian and Jonquil. How could he be singing about love and knights and maids when he had let her mother and brother die? He ran. He had not right so sing about honor!

Arya pulled herself up into a sitting position. She ached in every muscle of her body. Her head hurt and the ground seemed to spin under her. And everyone was dead. Her mother and her brother were both dead. Sansa said he promised to get them home. A great, gaping hole had opened in her chest, and Clegane was singing. How could he be singing? She shakily stood.

The sound of her movements must have caught Sansa’s attention because she found her sister holding her arms and keeping her steady. She couldn’t understand why her hands shook as she pushed the older girl’s arms away. She turned towards the Hound, taking a shaking step.

“Your fault.” Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. She swallowed and tried again. “It’s your _fault_ they’re dead. We could have gone in. We could have _saved_ them.”

She saw anger momentarily flash in his eyes before he steeled his expression. “No. You would have died as much as them. I’d rather live if I can help it.”

All the hate and anger bubbled up in Arya and she leapt at him, swinging her fists as she screamed. “ _Everything_ is your fault! _You_ let them die and _you_ took me from Lord Beric when he would have saved them and _you_ let Joffrey hurt Sansa, and _you_ touched her and _you_ killed Mycah and all of this is _your_ fault!”

Her hands were getting sore where she made contact with his armor and Sansa was trying to pull her off, but Arya kept hitting Clegane with all her might. She expected the Hound to grab her, shake her, yell at her, follow through with all his threats to tie and gag her. Instead he sat there and took her hits. He didn’t even act like he felt it. Which made Arya angrier.

“ _Fight me!_ ” she screamed. Clegane just sat there. She kicked his leg before letting Sansa pull her back. “I _hate_ you and I hope you _die_!”

His eyes looked hollow when he looked back up at her. “Might be I will someday. Might be I deserve your hate. But I won’t fight you, little wolf. Not today.”

Arya felt her sister pull her into an embrace and she wept into Sansa’s dress. “They’re gone,” she sobbed. “Our pack is gone. Our family’s dead and Winterfell is burned.”

She wasn’t sure how, but she found herself on the ground. Sansa’s arms wrapped tighter and tighter around Arya as she she dissolved into tears. She became distantly aware of her sister’s own tears dripping onto her head. Sansa had lost her pack just as much as Arya did. She hugged back, trying to give as much as she was taking.

“We’ll think of something. We still have each other,” was softly murmured into her ear.

On an instinct, Arya climbed into Sansa’s lap. When she had nightmares as a little girl, she would climb into their mother’s lap. Her mother would sing hymns and lullabies and run her fingers through Arya’s hair until she would inevitably fall asleep. Now, Sansa held her and sang the hymns while stroking her hair. Her wracking sobs slowed to sniffles and shuddery gasps of air. Large arms wrapped around both of them and for a second she thought it was her father. For a second she forgot everything and felt like she was home.


	26. Chapter 26

When both girls quieted, Sandor carefully unwound himself and stood. At Sansa’s questioning gaze, he gently touched her cheek, wiping away a stray tear.

“I’m just getting firewood,” he explained. “Stay.”

When she nodded her understanding, he made his way into the woods. It was difficult to find anything dry after the rains, but he found a few bits and pieces. He stepped on the end of a fallen branch and tried to get enough leverage to break it in two. When it did not give way, he stepped off it and swung it against a tree. The branch did not break so he swung again, harder. And again and again and again. It had been a massacre: tents on fire, men drunk and unarmed ridden down. And that fool sister had run into it. With a crunch, the branch finally broke. He tossed aside the bit in his hand and grabbed another, swinging again at the tree. The girls had lost everyone they ever cared about, leaving them with a worthless dog. And what good was he? He didn’t know anything about mourning. His mother, his sister, he father. If he had grieved any of them, Gregor would have found out, would have made him regret it. The wood broke violently, the end careening off into the woods. A twig snapped behind him and Sandor turned, breathing hard.

“What’s wrong, little bird?” What more could there be? He was helpless enough at giving her family back, what else was there?

“I-” she started, and then swallowed. “You were gone so long, I was worried.”

Her eyes were watery. When he had called a stop, Sansa had seemed to want nothing more than for him to hold her. She had choked on a song in what seemed to be an attempt to calm herself, so he had taken it up, despite his hatred for singing. Listening to him was the first time she had settled, though, since they had fled from the river.

Without saying a word he held his arm out to her. She flew to his side and wrapped her arms around him. He could feel her hands fisting in his tunic, clutching at him. Sandor dropped the stick he held before cradling the back of her head with one hand, the other going to her waist and pulling her close.

“I’m here, little bird,” he said softly. He wasn’t sure how his presence could help her, but he tightened his arms anyways, laying a soft kiss to the top of her head.

After a moment, Sansa seemed to pull away, but she still held him. When he looked at her, she looped her hand around his neck and pulled him to her lips. Sandor followed her lead and opened his mouth as she deepened the kiss. He pulled her close again, pressing her into the armor he still wore. His shaft hardened to her kisses, but, with a struggle, he managed to restrain himself. Feeling her soft hands on his cock caused him to start. He realized she had loosened the laces and reached her hands inside his trousers. He broke away, uncertain if this was what she really wanted now.

“Please,” she whimpered as she stood on her toes, reaching to kiss him again.

Sandor claimed her mouth this time and pressed her against the tree he had been swinging the sticks at. With one hand tangled in her hair, he reached the other into his pouch and pulled out the sheath. It was a struggle to pull on and tighten, but Sansa reached between them with both hands and tied the ribbons herself. He lifted her easily, bracing her body between himself and the tree. Guiding her legs around his waist, Sandor reached under her skirts. He instinctively ground against her cunt as he unlaced her smallclothes.

In one hard thrust, he was inside her. All gentleness she deserved was gone as he fucked her against the tree. She clutched at his shoulders almost desperately, and groaned into his mouth as her weight drove her onto his prick. The fast, brutal pace he set was too much for both of them and he felt the familiar tightening of her release just as he spent his seed. With a stroke of his thumb, she finished as well, and her legs loosened from around him.

Sandor carefully set the little bird on her feet and helped to arrange her skirts. When she seemed steady, he took half a step back to straighten himself as well. From the corner of his eye he watched her modestly step around a tree to put on her smallclothes again. Sandor began to gather up the wood he had already collected, ready to walk her back to camp. At the sound of her voice calling him, he stepped around the tree as well. On the other side, Sansa stood in front of a chestnut palfrey, gently stroking its muzzle.

“It has a saddle,” she stated.

Sandor took a closer look. The mare looked healthy, if a bit worn from running. “She likely ran off from the Twins. Her rider is probably dead.”

Sansa nodded soberly. “Could we give her to Arya? I’m sure she won’t try to run away.”

His nod was rewarded with a small, tentative smile and he hoped he was doing the right thing. He gently kissed her forehead before wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Sansa grabbed the horse’s bridle and he led her back to their camp.


	27. Chapter 27

The speech Sansa gave when she presented Arya with the horse was nearly the same their father gave when they were given their direwolves. The mare was Arya’s responsibility. She was to look after it, feed it, water it, groom it. She could have recited everything herself. But this horse could never replace Nymeria, so she named it Craven. The perfect name for a horse that had run. A coward didn’t deserve a brave name like her wolf did. What Sansa and Clegane thought of the name, she didn’t know.

And those two started to act differently, too. In the mornings, Sansa would insist Arya comb her hair, and would make her bathe every time they reached a stream or river. Clegane quit growling and snapping so much. The first day or two he seemed almost… careful, as if he was afraid she or Sansa would break. She tried to get him to do something, anything. She complained about getting hit by his axe; he shrugged and said it was only the flat of it. She said the two of them could have gone into the fight to save their mother; he snorted and asked what would have happened to Sansa. Arya didn’t know, so didn’t say anything.

After a few days, they found another survivor from the Twins, an archer who was among Ser Marq Piper’s men. His shoulder was red and his arm hung in a funny way as he leaned against a fallen tree. Arya felt her flesh crawl when she heard it was one of Lord Bolton’s men that had shattered it. To think she had asked him to bring her north! When he saw Sansa, the archer tried to act at bravely, saying his shattered shoulder was nothing.

“If it’s nothing, we’ll leave.” Sandor started to rise and the bowman grabbed him.

“Please,” he begged, trying to keep his voice too low for her and Sansa to hear. “Wine and mercy. All that I ask.”

“I have no wine, but can give you water.” The dying man accepted.

Sandor gave Arya his helm. “That puddle we passed,” he gestured the way they had come. “Get him some water.”

Arya nodded and trotted off, hearing Sansa asking “what can I do?” behind her.

When she returned, the man was still barely sitting upright, but now he leaned against her sister. Sansa was running her fingers through his blood crusted hair and softly singing hymns to the Seven. When she approached with the helm of water, he tilted his head back to Sansa’s shoulder and Arya poured the water into his mouth. Most of it spilled down his chin and beard, some of it splashing on the bodice of Sansa’s dress. He was still able to gulp down quite a bit, though, and licked at the few drops left in the helm.

“Good,” he said. “I wish it was wine, though. I wanted wine.”

“I know,” Clegane answered from behind her. She hadn’t seen him leaning against a tree when she came back, but now he pushed against it as he straightened and came close again. “Look away, little bird,” he said as he knelt down beside the man. When she was looking away, he eased his dagger into the man’s chest, and pulled it out again. “That’s where the heart is, girl,” he told her as he wiped his dagger off. He gently touched Sansa's cheek. “It’s done.”

“Do we bury him?” Sansa asked.

Clegane shook his head. “We have no spade. But we’ll see if he’s got anything we can use.”

Sansa wouldn’t look further than the man’s belt pouch, where she found a small purse with a few coins. It was left to Clegane and Arya to go through his clothes for anything hidden. He gave her the dead man’s dagger with a pink stone in the hilt. She also took his helm. His boots were a little bit too big for Sansa, but, with some cloth stuffed in the toes, they served better than the tattered shoes she wore. He had a quiver of arrows, but no bow, and his horse was long gone. Before they left him, Sansa found a few sticks and stones. She piled them into the sign of the Seven and gave a silent prayer, then climbed onto Perfect Lady and they rode on.

“Where are we going?” Arya asked when they reached mountain foothills. She wondered at Sansa never being the one to ask.

“You have an aunt in the Eyrie. She’s safe up on her mountain. With the Young Wolf dead, your uncle’s most like under siege at Riverrun. The mountains are the best place to keep you both.”

“We should go back,” Arya decided. “We should go back to the Twins and help our mother.”

Clegane snorted and turned to Sansa. “I thought you were the one with the head full of songs.”

“Don’t,” Sansa said to him softly, then turned to her. “She’s gone, Arya. If we go back to the Twins, Lord Walder will either return us to King’s Landing, or he will hold us hostage and claim Winterfell through us. We need to keep going.”

Arya didn’t know how she could argue that and so kept silent. And that night dreamed. She dreamt she was a wolf, hunting along a river. She was following a smell she recognized and soon came on a body floating in the river. It was naked and pale and dead.

In the morning, she woke before Sansa or Clegane, and had watered all three horses by the time they were awake. When Sansa went behind a tree to make water, Clegane knelt in front of Arya.

“This thing with your mother…” he started quietly, as if to keep it between them.

Arya shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I know she’s dead. I saw it in a dream.” Clegane just looked at her.

“Saw what in a dream?” Sansa asked as she returned. Arya hadn’t meant to say it so loud.

She crossed her arms in front of her, looking at the ground. “I know Mother is dead because I saw it in a dream,” she repeated, feeling a little silly now. She gestured with her head. “We’ll do what he says.”

Then Sansa was in front of her, tilting her chin up. “Thank you,” her sister said simply, before pressing a kiss to her forehead. Arya was out of tears, but she still hugged her tightly.


	28. Chapter 28

Sansa felt herself sigh with relief when Sandor said they would go into the village. It was small and remote, high in foothills, surrounded by evergreen trees. It was doubtful these people knew anything about her, Sandor, or Arya, or what had happened at the Twins. These people were so isolated, she wondered if they even knew Joffrey had been king for over a year.

The smallfolk were building a wooden wall around their village and offered food, beds, and coin if Sandor would help them build it. After negotiating the exact price, an agreement was made and the three of them were led to a small inn. Up a flight of stairs they were shown to a room with a large bed that looked like it could hold six grown men. Through a door next to the fireplace was a second, smaller room, with a narrower bed. Their small quarters took half a floor and the lumpy beds were stuffed with straw, but Sansa was glad to be off the hard ground and out of the rains.

“Might we also have a bath?” she asked Sandor softly as the woman in charge of the inn started the fire and lit some candles, but she heard her and nodded.

“We’ll have a tub and hot water brought up. I’m sure your husband and step-daughter would appreciate a bath as well.”

Sansa said nothing and felt her face warm at Sandor being mistaken for her husband. From the corner of her eye, she saw Arya swallow whatever response she might have given. She thanked the gods her sister did not try to correct the woman and put them in danger of discovery.

“Bring us our supper as well,” Sandor added.

The woman studied each of them. Sansa tried to show as much weariness as she felt. The woman nodded. “Just this once. Starting tomorrow you eat downstairs or you don’t eat.”

After closing the door behind her, Sandor sat on the edge of the large bed and pulled Sansa down next to him. Arya remained standing.

“They don’t seem to know us but we can’t risk it,” he started. “If they know King’s Landing is missing a couple Stark girls, it’s better if they don’t know they have them. You need new names here.”

“I’ll be Nan,” Arya spoke up immediately. Sandor nodded.

“And you, little bird?”

Sansa thought. “I can’t imagine any name other than my own,” she said.

Sandor met her eyes and watched her as his fingers threaded through her hair. “Will you accept Joy?”

“Joy’s a stupid name,” Arya interrupted, rolling her eyes. “Why not use Septa Mordane’s name? I’m using Nan’s.”

Sandor released her and looked away. “Use whatever name you wish,” he said bitingly.

“What if I don’t take a name?” Sansa tried to compromise. “What if in private I keep my own, but I don’t give a name to the others?”

“You have to have a name,” her sister bickered. “People will ask.”

Sandor nodded beside her. “It’s late, you’re tired. Think on it and decide in the morning.”

The bathwater came before their supper. Sansa had the tub set in the smaller room, next to the fire. Some spare clothes also came up for them to wear while their own were cleaned. She washed Arya first, scrubbing the backs of her ears and neck, which were crusted with dirt. Once her sister was clean and dried and dressed in a shift “just until our clothes are washed,” it was Sansa’s turn. The water was barely warm, but it felt good to get all the grime off of her. By the time she was finished and dressed, their supper had arrived, and Arya and Sandor were eating quietly from opposite sides of the room.

She sat on the bed with her bowl. On one side, Arya sat in a chair by the window, her shift already dirty from spilled stew. On the other, Sandor sat on the edge of the bed nearest the door without his armor, but his sword resting beside him. Sansa sighed as she started eating, not knowing how to bring them together. The meal was as plain as the brown stew she had eaten in King’s Landing before Sandor had taken her away, and the ale was dark and bitter. Her nose wrinkled but she finished her portion greedily.

When Sandor finished, he walked into the second room and closed the door. Arya left her own empty bowl and cup on the chair and plopped on the bed next to Sansa.

“Do you think the Eyrie will be like this?” her sister asked.

“Like what?” Sansa asked as she finished her bowl and placed it next to Sandor’s on the side table.

“Quiet.”

“Aunt Lysa has a son about Bran’s age. He will probably be running around.”

Arya nodded and rolled over to stare up at the ceiling. Sansa sat back down next to her and began finger-combing her own hair. “Will Clegane stay with us in the Eyrie?” the younger girl piped up again.

She thought about it. “I hope so.”

“I promise I won’t tell Aunt Lysa he took your maidenhead.”

Sansa stroked her sister’s hair, touched. “Thank you. I appreciate your discretion.”

“Doesn’t mean I like him.”

She smiled. “Of course not.”

“You can sing if you want,” Arya said after another pause.

Sansa was halfway through her song and Arya was asleep by the time Sandor returned clean and dry. He lifted the smaller girl easily and carried her to the second bed. He then left their dirty clothes in the hall to be cleaned, along with the tray of empty bowls and cups, and the tub of cold, dirty water. She could barely keep her own eyes open from exhaustion, but she waited until he blew out the candles and climbed into bed beside her.

“Who was Joy?”

“Hm?’ he asked as he pulled her into his arms, seeming half asleep himself.

“Earlier you suggested I take the name Joy. Was she someone important to you?”

His fingers threaded through her hair again. This time, though, it seemed as if he was trying to comfort himself with her closeness. Sansa wrapped her arm around his waist, hoping she hadn’t upset him.

“My sister,” he said at last.

When no other information was forthcoming, Sansa asked, “What happened to her?”

Sandor’s arms tightened around her. “She died. She was between me and Gregor in age and used to play monsters and maidens with me. Even after I got burned she would still play with me and talk about me growing up to be a knight. After our father died, I couldn’t take her with me when I left. She wrote me regularly and then one day her letters just stopped. I don’t know how, but Lord Tywin found out she had fallen and broken her neck.” He paused for a time, squeezing her once more. “I think she would have liked you. She would have listened to your songs and stories for days.”

She squeezed him in return. “If the reminder of her won’t be too painful, I would be honored to take her name. But in private, will I still have my own?”

His lips found hers in the dark. “Yes, little bird.” He shifted them so he lay above her. Sansa wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “You’ll always be yourself. This is only until we can get you and your sister safely away.”

The next morning, they found out they would not make the Eyrie. At breakfast downstairs, one of the village elders spoke to Sandor. There was frost and snow to make their travel difficult, with wild animals and mountain clans making it even more dangerous. The thought of one of these clans stealing her and Arya away made her shudder in fear. “We’ll think of something,” Sandor promised in private. For now, Sansa only cared that she was warm and dry.


	29. Chapter 29

Sandor worked with the villagers, cutting down and stripping trees, using Stranger to drag them to the palisade. It was long, hot work. Even when the wind blew and the air grew chill he would be drenched in sweat by sundown. Sansa took up some work also, helping the village women with mending and sewing. He found himself rubbing the cramps from her fingers each night before he took her. Sandor didn’t know what the little wolf did with herself each day, but whatever it was left her a mess. Some evenings, he would come back to their rooms and find his little bird angrily chirping at the girl for being as dirty and sweaty as a man. He easily ended each argument by dumping the child into the bathwater, clothes and all.

At night, after supper, he expected Sansa to continue her same sleep patterns as before, alternating between his bed and her sister’s. On their second night in the village, he was more than a little startled when she forwent her sister’s smaller bed to sleep beside him again. And she did it again the third night and fourth and on and on. All questions would flee him, though, at the feel of her lips. In the mornings he would find her naked and wrapped around him. After enjoying her mouth and skin again, they would dress and wake the sister before going down to break their fast.

It was her kisses when they parted for the day that he began to look forward to most. As he would begin to rise from the table, she would gently touch his arm or shoulder. When he leaned down to her level, Sansa would place a tiny kiss to his lips. Nothing was ever said by Arya or the villagers. As he worked during the day, he could feel her lips on his until he saw her again.

The villagers themselves gave him a wide berth. They did not ask for his name or his history, and he did not volunteer the information either. Few could look him in the eye but they used his strength readily enough. The horses ate well and were groomed regularly. The war for the throne had not come to this remote little village and their only concerns seemed to be raids from the mountain clans.

Hidden away like this, Sandor thought he could keep his little bird and the wolf girl safe.

“It’s nice here,” Sansa said as she climbed into bed a fortnight after they had arrived.

Sandor grunted “hm” as he pulled her naked body to straddle his stomach and started to rub the base of her thumb. He noticed her muscles were not as tight as when he first started to rub them.

“It’s peaceful,” she continued, stroking her own fingers through the hair on his chest. “Like being hidden in a safe little world.”

She bent down and kissed him when he finished her hand. He deepened the kiss as he cupped one hand behind her head and wrapped the other arm around her waist. With a twist and a roll, he was laying above her. He leaned on one arm as the other caressed her, thumb crazing her nipple, fingers squeezing her hip. Her leg hooked around his waist and he slid into her far too easily. A madness took him at the feel of her wet warmth.

“We could stay.” The words spilled from his mouth as he kissed her neck. He gave a thrust. “They think you’re my wife. We don’t have to tell them you’re not.”

Sansa’s nails scraped his scalp and she met his thrusts. “What about Arya?” she sighed, the name sounding forced.

“We’ll say she’s my daughter.” An image of Sansa with child, his child, flashed behind his eyes and his thrusts became more needful. His teeth scraped against her collarbone. “And I’ll give you more, if you want them. We could be a family, hiding away from the kings’ war.”

Her lack of answer caused him to raise his head. Her mouth was slack and eyes shut tight, a flush spreading to her breasts and up her cheeks. Suddenly cured of his madness, Sandor rose to his knees and gripped her hips tightly. With a few quick, rough thrusts he was near release. He reached between them and rubbed her sensitive nub above their joining. Whomever she was imagining must have been handsome because Sansa moaned and her walls tightened around him in release. His own was not far behind and he spent with a grunt. He ground against her through the last of his release.

Worn, Sandor rolled off the little bird and pulled her back to him before pulling the covers over them. With a start, he realized he had spent in her without the sheath, that his seed had been left inside her. He struggled to remember where he now kept it, when they had last used it. A sinking feeling told him how long it had been.

“I would like to stay with you,” she whispered before he could say anything. “I would like to be your wife and give you strong sons.”

He pulled her close, hand splayed across the flat of her stomach. He tried to tell her with a kiss to her shoulder he would take anything she saw fit give him.

His thoughts of staying were dashed in the morning, though, when he approached the village elder.

“We’ve heard of King Joffrey’s dog,” the old man said over breakfast. “Man like you brings blood.”

“When your mountain clans come, might be you need a dog like me.”

He saw the old man hesitate. “Might be. But we’ve also heard you lost your belly for fighting, and that you stole the king’s future bride to whelp your craven pups.”

Sandor gritted his teeth when the elder’s eyes darted towards the girls, waiting just out of earshot. It was foolish of him to think the village hadn’t heard about the battle, about him and Sansa. Foolish to think he could make a safe home for her and her sister. So long as people knew who he was, knew he had run and stolen her, they wouldn’t be safe or wanted.

“Pay me, then, and we’ll be gone,” he growled.

The purse was a few coins heavier than the original agreement thanks to Sansa’s work, and he traded the long axe from the Twins for a second sword. Arya helped him saddle the horses and they left by midmorning.

“Where will we go now?” Sansa asked as the village disappeared behind them.

“We could go to the Wall. Jon’s there,” the little girl piped up.

Sandor laughed. “What would you do on the Wall? Join the Night’s Watch?” The wolf girl just glared at him. “The Wall’s a thousand leagues from here. We’d need to fight through the Freys just to reach the Neck. There’s lizard lions in those swamps. And if we did reach the north with our skins, there’s ironborn in half the castles and northmen.”

“Are you scared of them? Have you lost your belly for fighting?”

So they had heard.

“Sandor is very brave,” Sansa interjected. “It was very dangerous to get me out of King’s Landing. And he protected us at the Twins.”

“Don’t defend me, little bird,” he growled. “There’s nothing wrong with my belly. Going north’s a fool’s errand we won’t be going on. We’ll figure it out when we reach the Kingsroad.” He only hoped that was true.


	30. Chapter 30

“We’ll find the Trident at the crossroads and follow it to the sea,” Sandor said when they reached the high road. “At Saltpans we’ll sell the horses and buy passage on a ship.”

Sansa tried to imagine Sandor without his great black courser, Stranger. At times the horse seemed as much a part of him as his scars. Since leaving King’s Landing, and then since running with Arya, the animal seemed to take to her and her sister, nuzzling each of them for scratches and treats when Sandor was not present. She thought she might mourn saying goodbye to the sweet beast.

“Where would we get a ship to?” Arya asked from his right. “North?”

From his left, Sansa rolled her eyes in annoyance. Just days ago, he said they would not be going north but her sister still held hope for it.

“East. The Free Cities.”

“Braavos? Syrio was from Braavos.”

The name sounded familiar, but Sansa was unable to place it. “Who’s Syrio?”

“Syrio Forel, my dancing master. He was going to come north with us before…” Arya trailed off.

She remembered her sister’s bruises. “You were never very good at dancing.”

“Forel wasn’t that kind of dance master, little bird,” Sandor joined in. “He was a Water Dancer, a swordfighter, and not a bad one.”

“Syrio was first sword of Braavos,” her sister added proudly. “But how did you know he was a Water Dancer? Trant thought he was just a regular dance master.”

“I’d see him practice on his own early in the mornings, while Trant and everyone else were still in bed. I would have liked to have trained against him. And I wouldn’t have let him kill five of my men with a wooden sword.”

“Maybe he would have killed _you_!”

Sandor paused, as though he was thinking about it. “Maybe he would have, if I wasn’t wearing armor. Instead I was sent after your father’s steward.”

“Sandor brought Jeyne to my room and we waited together.” Sansa felt sick, thinking about that time. She tried changing the subject. “What would we do in the Free Cities?”

He glanced between them. “If your sister’s any good with a sword, some school might take her to learn more. Rich men always need guards, so I’ll find work easily enough. Doubt there’d be much call for ladies in the Free Cities, though, unless they’re going to marry some rich man.”

Sansa caught him watching her from the corner of his eye. His scarred and ruined lips were twitching. “I would rather marry for love. If we need coin, I’m sure I can take work sewing.” She tried to picture their life in the Free Cities. “And would we live together, the three of us?”

“Personal guards don’t get paid well enough for a manse of their own, little bird. Like as not, the she wolf will live in a cell at her fighting school. You and I will get whatever servants’ quarters our new masters will give us.”

“I wouldn’t want to live with _you_ anyways,” Arya said to him. “You’re grumpy in the morning before Sansa gets up.”

“You’re welcome to leave,” Sandor snarled back. Arya just made a face.

Sansa bit her lip, thinking. “What if we saved the coin we earned? We might not get a manse, but some kind of home. Arya can work, too.”

“I’m not going to _work_ ,” she said indignantly. “I’m going to learn to be a Water Dancer!”

“We’ll see how things are after we sail there,” Sandor placated. “First we need to get to Saltpans and find a ship.”

They stopped in a clearing just off the road that night and Sandor caught a hare for them to eat as Arya watered and hobbled the horses for grazing. Watching him skin the animal, though, had Sansa ducking behind a tree to be sick. The greasy crackling and popping as it cooked also turned her stomach, but the meat itself was good. She sucked the bones clean and licked her fingers when she finished. The small meal over, Arya bundled her cloak around her and stared into the fire. Sandor rose and held his hand out to help Sansa stand.

“Come,” he said softly. She rose and held his hand as she followed him deeper into the woods. “Are you unwell?” he asked as he leaned her against a tree.

She thought about it. Now that she had eaten, her stomach did not churn as badly as it had. “No, I’m better,” she answered.

Sandor gently kissed her cheek. “You’ve seen me skin animals before, little bird. Why did you get sick this time?” His lips grazed down her jaw to her throat.

Her voice seemed to leave her. “I don’t know,” she whispered. She wrapped her arms around his neck, tangled her fingers in his hair. “Don’t stop.”

Sansa melted into his body as his hands rested at her hips and pulled her close. His tongue laved against her skin before his teeth scraped. She sighed when he gave attention to a particularly sensitive point. Her skin felt too hot as his hands slid up her sides, caressed her back, stroked her breasts. She struggled to unlace her bodice.

When the offending cloth at last came loose and was removed, Sandor dropped to his knees before her. He kissed the skin above the neck of her shift, then traveled down to her breasts. He sucked on a nipple through the cloth and her womanhood fluttered. The air was cool through the wet fabric as he moved to her other breast. Sansa’s breaths came quick and shallow, and she held his head in place, not wanting to end this new bliss.

As he suckled at her, his hands slid under her skirts, up her calves to her thighs and bottom. With a firm tug, her smallclothes dropped to the ground. She followed his guidance in stepping from them. Sandor next unlaced her skirt and slid it down over her hips as his lips moved to between her breasts, the bottom of her ribs, her stomach. When she was in naught but her shift, he rose again, pulling up the hem of her last garment with him. He pressed her back again and sucked at her nipples as he had before. The bark of the tree bit into her back and thighs as his tunic and trousers stroked and caressed her front. She could feel his mail through the tunic, ripples caused by the rings setting her on fire.

Moaning, Sansa pulled at his tunic, wanting to be closer to him. Instead, he straightened in front of her and only unlaced his trousers. He spun her around so her breasts where pressed against the rough bark. Her arms were guided to wrap around the tree and her hips were pulled back and up. She hugged the trunk desperately as Sandor slammed into her opening. His hands gripping her hips were almost soft compared to the rough bark scratching her chest and arms. She rocked against him, trying to meet his hard thrusts.

She was hardly able to hold herself up so could not reach to their joining to find her nub. His own hands stayed at her hips, yanking her to him erratically. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut tight and focused only on the feel of his length inside of her.

“ _What_ are you _doing_?”

Sansa nearly screamed when she opened her eyes and saw Arya watching them. Sandor had stilled in her momentarily before cursing and pulling away. She grabbed for her shift and quickly pulled it over her head. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sandor lacing himself back up.

“Arya, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you with the horses?”

“You were gone a long time and I got worried.” Her sister looked between the two of them. “Was he hurting you?”

Sansa reached out, trying to placate her. “Arya, it’s alright…”

Her sister yanked away. “He was! He was hurting you!”

She ran at Sandor, dagger drawn. He just barely caught her and pried the blade from her fingers before he could be hurt.

“He wasn’t,” Sansa explained. “It’s… nice. It’s what men and women do together.”

“That’s what _dogs_ do, not people!” Arya squirmed in Sandor’s grip

He snorted and rolled his eyes as he held her still. “Your sister certainly wasn’t complaining.”

Sansa gave him an exasperated look before addressing her sister. “It does feel good, Arya. If he was hurting me, I would have asked him to stop. I like it. Maybe someday you’ll have a husband who makes you feel as good.”

She saw both Arya and Sandor had finally stilled. “But you aren’t _married_!”

Sadly, she bit her lip. “No, we aren’t. But we have been careful, so I won’t be with child until…” She didn’t know how to finish. Until Sandor married her? Until he had her married to someone else? He talked about her pretending to be his wife, but would he ever want it in truth?

“Go back to the fire, wolf girl. Sansa and I will join you when she’s dressed.” Sandor’s voice had taken on a strange quality. “Go back to the fire,” he said more firmly when Arya tried to fight him again.

After her sister sulked away, Sansa gathered her clothes and began to dress. Sandor’s large hands were gentle as he helped her tie her skirts and lace her bodice. She noticed he could not look in her eyes as he did so.

“I have not been as careful as I should have, little bird,” he said at last. His hands rested on her hips again, but he neither pulled her close, nor pushed her away. “The past fortnight, I’ve forgotten to use the sheath.” He paused, finally looking in her eyes. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Sansa nodded. “You may have given me a baseborn child.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and softly kissed him. “If the gods see fit to give us a child, I will not feel shame.”

At last he pulled her close, burying his face into her neck. “You deserve better than a dog. A man who would be gentle, give you trueborn sons and daughters. A man who would never have forced you. Why have you forgiven me for taking your maidenhead?”

She tried to soothe him by stroking his hair. “You took nothing so there is nothing to forgive. I gave it to you. I knew it was you who came to my room that night and I would rather have given my maidenhead to you than to Joffrey. If I was to only ever live my life having his children, I wanted just one night with someone kind first. There is no one I would rather have given it to.”

Sandor held her tighter momentarily then pulled back. He held the sides of her face and watched her eyes in the twilight. Finding whatever answer he was looking for, he kissed Sansa gently before escorting her back to the fire. At their arrival, Arya made a face of disgust and Sansa sighed sadly. Would her little family ever be happy together?


	31. Chapter 31

Arya watched her sister and the Hound as she rode Craven behind them. Sansa chattered and laughed and sang as if she hadn’t a care in the world. When she looked back to check on Arya’s progress, her face would be split in a wide grin. Clegane didn’t say much, at least that Arya could hear. When he turned his head to look at Sansa, she only saw the burned side of his face, the ruined corner of his mouth seeming to twitch. Stopping for rest, she watched him carefully lift her sister to the ground, his hands lingering at her waist as Sansa smiled up at him. Arya wanted to gag when she saw them share a small kiss. It was different from seeing her parents kiss. This was her _sister_ and the Hound.

“You two are gross,” she whined as she dismounted.

Clegane held Sansa a little longer and kissed her head out of spite. Arya stuck her tongue out at him as she led Craven to the small stream they stopped near. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t say anything. Instead he disappeared into the trees for firewood and supper. With the horses grazing, her sister turned to her.

“Arya, come help me,” she said. “My bodice is uncomfortable.”

Arya helped her undo and retie the garment multiple times. Normally, her sister wore it snug to her body; like they had seen some maids wear it. They tried to keep it fairly tight, but once the laces were level with Sansa’s chest, she would shake her head and they would start again. By the time they were done, the bodice was nearly as loose and baggy as the shift underneath. Clegane came back with a bundle of wood and dropped it in a pile.

“You remember how to start a fire, little bird?” Sansa nodded. Clegane tossed a knife that stuck blade-first into the ground next to the wood. “I’ll find something to eat. You take care of this.”

“How do you know about starting fires?” Arya asked when Sandor Clegane had left. Sansa arranged various sticks, twigs, and leaves into a pile.

“Sandor showed me while we were on the run,” she explained, biting her lip as she struck a rock against the knife. At first there were no sparks, then tiny ones that did not catch on the leaves. “I’ve never lit one myself, though.”

Arya reached her hands out for the knife and stone. “Let me. Yoren taught me on our way north.” She was surprised to see Sansa pull them close to her and grit her teeth.

“I will do it,” she said. She began striking the blade harder, larger sparks flying.

“Closer to the leaves,” Arya directed.

A spark finally landed on the pile of leaves and Sansa gently blew. After lots of smoke billowed up, a tiny flame finally took. She quickly shoved the fire amongst the wood and kept blowing until the flame looked like it could maintain itself. Her sister sat back with a satisfied grin on her face. They tended the fire from opposite ends, poking at sticks and logs until a small, warm blaze crackled in front of them. Clegane didn’t say anything when he returned, just nudged a couple of logs to the side with a stick, making room for the skinned animal they were going to eat. She couldn’t tell what it was, but it looked big enough for the three of them. As it cooked, he rose and grabbed a couple long, narrow branches.

“Up, wolf girl,” he gestured to Arya. When she did, he pointed to an open area not far from the fire, tossing her one of the branches as she approached it. “Show me what Forel taught you.”

The branch was longer and heavier than she was used to, but she easily went into a Water Dancer stance. She clutched the stick in her left hand and held it in front of her with the tip slightly raised, lining up her left foot under the makeshift sword and the rest of her body sideface to Sandor. She recognized his stance as more like the style Ser Rodrick taught her brothers in Winterfell: his empty shield arm and left foot towards her, the “blade” pointing up and angled across his body.

“Please don’t hurt her,” Sansa seemed to plead.

“Depends on her,” the Hound answered.

Then he struck. Or tried to. He was fast for a man so large, but Arya was quick as well. Swift as a deer, she ducked under his swing and made for his front leg. He pivoted away as he made a backhand stroke. She backed away before darting in again, fierce as a wolverine, on his shield side and managed a poke to his thigh with the tip of the “sword.” Sandor told her to wait and got another branch. This one was much wider and he held it in the middle with his left hand. He did not attack her this time, but simply blocked each of her blows with the makeshift shield. Just the tiniest movement of his arm would knock her strike to the side and deflect her movements.

Calm as still water, she tried attacking his sword side. The shield did not reach quite so far, but now he also used his own blade to block her. He had a longer reach on her, so she tried inching closer, past his defenses. If she approached directly, he saw it and would immediately back away. But she found if she moved as to circle him, he would stay in place and she could inch closer that way. When she was just a step away, she lunged, quick as a snake, and struck his side before backing away again.

“Good,” he said simply. “Now defend.”

And he attacked. Arya could barely keep hold of her sword as she deflected each of his blows. One strong strike almost wrenched the blade from her hand and she backed up quickly. She breathed deeply, trying to remember what Syrio had taught her. _The man who fears losing has already lost_. But it felt like the Hound had been just toying with her. Angry, she ran back at him and swung as hard as she could, vision going blurry. He deflected every shot before finally knocking the blade from her hands.

“Why did you lose?” he demanded from above her. She refused to answer and retrieved her stick. “ _Why_ did you lose?” he repeated. Arya shrugged. “You got angry. Keep control, or you’ll do something stupid. Understand?” She nodded, still feeling angry. “Good. Again.”

 _Calm as still water_ , she repeated in her head over and over. _Calm as still water_. Her vision began to clear and she returned to the Water Dancer stance. She moved the blade up, down, left, right, blocking and dodging as Clegane attacked again. The motions came back to her and she watched his grey eyes. They seemed to dart and dance as much as her blade, looking for an opening as she closed them off. She blocked high blows to her head and low ones to her legs, danced and weaved, ducking and dodging. The corner of his mouth twitched as he continued to drive at her. Her arm was tired and she knew it would be sore in the morning. Then his eyes grew still, watching her own. She couldn’t see anymore, didn’t know where his next stroke would come from.

Then her legs were knocked from under her and she landed flat on her back.

“Arya! Are you hurt?” she distantly heard Sansa call.

“I’m fine, I’m not hurt,” she answered. Sandor bent over her.

“Why did you lose?” he asked.

“I didn’t know where your blow was coming from.”

“Why not?”

“Your eyes didn’t tell me anymore.”

His brow furrowed and he tilted his head, like he was confused. “My eyes? What if I wore a helm? How can you watch eyes then?” Arya shrugged from on her back. Sandor held his hand out and helped her up. “Every man has a tell.” He crouched in front of her, looked her in the eyes. “Something he does every fight. Every time. _You_ knock my blade behind you, where you can’t see it. Always know where the blade is.”

Arya nodded. “What’s yours?”

His mouth twitched again. “You have to figure it out yourself.” He rose and checked on the food. Sansa had been turning it as they fought and it looked done. “Come eat,” he called to Arya. Sandor sat on one side of Sansa and Arya sat on his other. “You want a shield?” he asked idly as they worked at the bones.

“No,” Arya answered. Syrio didn’t use one, and she didn’t think she wanted to use one either.

Sandor nodded. “I’ll keep teaching you. Might be you can use that second blade.”

Arya remember Needle and felt sad. It was difficult to fight like Syrio taught her with a longsword. She wondered if, once they reached Braavos, she would be able to get another sword like the one Jon gave her.

“A good fighter can use any weapon he’s given,” Sandor said, as if he read her mind.

Arya nodded and after supper he had her try to hit him again with the sticks. She went to sleep exhausted and her arm was sore in the morning, but she decided to challenge him again that night. And seeing him kiss her sister didn’t seem quite as gross as it had the before.


	32. Chapter 32

Over the next couple days, a peace settled over the three of them. After a long day’s ride, Sandor would train Arya while Sansa watched. Once her sister was asleep from exhaustion, Sandor would take Sansa into his arms. Buried under their cloaks, he lay above her each night, and used his fingers on her. Sated, she would try to unlace his trousers and take him in hand, but had to instead stroke him through the rough cloth when she proved so tired she became clumsy. Satisfied, he would then curl himself around her, burying his hooked nose into her hair and breathing deeply. He was always the first to rise, as well. By the time Sansa woke, Sandor and Arya would have the horses saddled and breakfast waiting. More often than not, her stomach twisted at the sight of food, but she ate what she could.

“It’s getting cold in the night,” she mentioned one morning, trying to rub a bit of warmth back into her limbs.

“It’s autumn, little bird,” Sandor explained. “Winter’s coming.”

Her family’s words had never sounded so ominous and she shivered. “Arya and I have never seen a winter.”

Sandor helped her onto Perfect Lady as her sister easily climbed onto Craven. “It’s dead cold in the winter. Colder than your northern summers.”

“Is there lots of snow in the winter?” Arya asked. Sandor nodded.

“Sometimes it snows for months at a time. Piles taller than most men. Wolf-girls would get lost in it.” He fluidly mounted Stranger and led them back to the road.

“ _I_ wouldn’t,” Arya answered. “I could find my way out of anything.”

Sandor barked a laugh. “How would you do that? Mark your territory like a real wolf?”

“But how do people survive if it’s so cold?” Sansa interrupted.

For a moment, Sandor just studied her. The ruined corner of his mouth twitched and his brow drew in as his eyes moved from her face, to her hair, to the reins in her hands, to her foot in the stirrup, and back. “Being careful,” he finally said as his eyes turned back to the road. “Saving wood, fires only as big as they need be. The lords should be having their smallfolk plant one last harvest. Instead, the fields are burned. This will be a hard winter.”

“How many winters have you seen?”

“This will be my second.” He tapped his burned cheek. “This was my first.”

Arya rode up between them and stared at his burns. “Were you stupid and fall in a brazier?” she asked bluntly.

“Arya!” Sansa admonished. Her face warmed in embarrassment for him.

“You never told?” He looked between them, eyes wide. She shook her head. He looked back to the younger sister. “No, wolf-girl, I didn’t _fall_ in a brazier. I was held down.” He kicked Stranger ahead of them to signal an end to the conversation.

“He told you?” Arya questioned. “What happened?”

“He told me. And he will tell you if he wants you to know.” That earned her a scowl. “I promised I wouldn’t tell.” In truth, he had said he would kill her if she did, but now she doubted he would do so. Either way, she still gave her word.

They rode in silence for a time. At the top of a rise, Sandor waited for them to catch up and nodded to the road ahead. The high road continued on and crossed with another. At their joining, Sansa spied the back of a three story building, multiple white chimneys rising from the roof. One end, towards the left, was built on pilings over weeds growing wild, while the right seemed to have a bell tower. Not far beyond, a mighty river flowed past. _The Trident_ , she knew.

“The crossroads inn,” Sandor explained. “If we’re going to follow the Trident, we best know what to expect.” He reached and pulled her hood up to cover her auburn hair.

Circling the building, Arya brought Craven to an abrupt stop behind them “I don’t think we should go in.” She pointed above the door.

A woman’s bones and tattered clothes hung on a gibbet. A breath of wind had them twisting and floating in the air. Sandor looked as well, jaw clenched, before he dismounted.

“Stay with the horses if you want,” he said. “We need to know who holds this end of the Trident. And I need some wine.” He pushed inside without waiting for either of them.

Sansa dismounted as well and took the bridle to both Stranger and Perfect Lady. “Come on, Arya,” she called as she made her way towards the stables.

Leaving some hay for each of them, the sisters followed Sandor into the inn. The silence stopped her dead. There were men and women in the main room. Tired fieldhands sat by the fire, the innkeeper stood behind a bar, a trio of men sat at a table with women in their laps. Sansa blushed to see one had his hand down a woman’s bodice. Though Sandor had done the same to her, it had been dark and they had been alone. And they all seemed to stare at him, then her and her sister. Arya circled around her left, hand resting at the knife on her belt.

“Looking for your brother, Sandor?” one of the men, the one with his hand in the woman’s bodice, asked. The nausea in Sansa’s stomach increased. _They know him_. The man looked towards her and his hand slid out of the woman’s bodice before he pushed her from his lap. “Or looking for a bed?”

“Looking for a cup of wine,” Sandor answered. With a shifting of his feet, he had both of them behind him. “Innkeep, a flagon of red.” The coopers pinged and tinged off the bar and floor when he tossed them.

“I don’t want no trouble, ser.”

“Then don’t call me _ser_.” His voice was harsh, harsher than she had heard in a long time. “I ordered wine,” he barked. As the man ran off, Sandor shouted, “ _Three cups!_ The girls’re thirsty!”

As he led them to a table, the three men eyed them. They hardly seemed to glance at Arya before turning their attention to Sansa. They gave her face only a cursory glance under the hood, but their eyes lingered at the neck of her shift, the narrowing of her skirts at her waist before they flared to her hips, down the length of her legs. Despite her many layers, she felt utterly exposed to them. She was grateful when Sandor had her sit against the wall on his left. The table and his body partially blocked the men’s stares. She was too frightened to look at his face, but his body was tense. Her sister paced around the table, grey eyes thunderous.

“Is this the lost puppy Ser Gregor spoke of?” one of the men asked the others. She saw he was truly no more than a boy, a squire. “The one who piddled in the rushes and stole the wolf?”

The third man, a plain one, took the boy by the arm and shook his head for silence. The boy didn’t seem to understand.

“Ser said his puppy brother tucked his tail between his legs when the battle got too warm in King’s Landing. He said he stole the king’s bitch and ran off whimpering. Don’t see as how any wolf bitch would let an ugly, scared puppy into her tight cunt, ‘less she’s a slut.” He shot Sandor a cruel smile. Sandor said nothing.

The main who had been fondling the woman stood. “The lad’s drunk. He can’t hold his wine, is all.” _He’s scared_ , Sansa realized. _He’s trying to prevent a fight because he knows they will lose_.

“Then he shouldn’t drink,” came the answer. Sandor’s voice was like gravel, angry and threatening, barely contained in his massive form.

“The puppy doesn’t scare…” the boy started before the quiet man twisted his ear. The boy squealed before falling silent.

It was then the innkeeper returned with three stone mugs and a flagon of wine. Sandor drank heavily from the flagon and slammed it down on the table. A third of it was gone. “Now you can pour. And pick up those coppers, too, it’s the only coin you’re like to see today.”

“We’ll pay when we’re done drinking,” the first man said.

“When you’re done drinking, you’ll tickle the innkeep to see where he keeps his gold. The way you always do.”

The others were making their way out, leaving the six of them at their respective tables. Sansa wanted to leave, too, but instead clutched her cup of wine tightly, taking tiny sips. Arya reached over her shoulder and took her own, continuing her pacing.

“If you’re looking for Ser, you come too late. We went to Harrenhall after the battle, but the queen sent for him. King Joffrey’s dead you know. Poisoned at his own wedding feast.”

Sansa felt something lighten in her chest. Dead! All this time, Joffrey was finally dead and gone, and she was safe from him. But she was unable to go home, overrun and burned by Iron Islanders. The relief of being free was still bitter to her as she still had no safe place to go.

“So much for my brave brothers of the Kingsguard.” Sansa felt him snort and roll his eyes. “Who’s Joff supposed to have married if I stole his little bird?”

“Some cunt from Highgarden. Supposed to be sweeter than the Winterfell girl.” The man looked at her again, as if now trying to see who she really was. She ducked her head to keep her face in the shadow of her hood. “Ser isn’t the only one says you stole her.”

Sandor drained his cup and poured himself another. “I stole nothing. The little bird flew away on her own.”

“They’ll find her,” the first man spoke, his eyes still boring through her. “If it takes half the gold in Casterly Rock.”

“They say she’s pretty,” the quiet man finally spoke. He licked his lips and glanced back to her. “Honey sweet.” Sansa tried not to squirm.

“And courteous. A proper little lady, eager to please. Not like her bloody sister.”

“They found her, too. The sister. She’s for Bolton’s bastard I hear,” said the first man.

Sandor roared with laughter. Sansa only scowled in her cup. Who was pretending to be Arya?

“What’s so bloody funny?” asked the man, pulling his attention away from her.

Sandor didn’t look at her or Arya. “If I’d wanted you to know, I’d have told you. Are there ships at Saltpans?”

“Saltpans? How should I know? The traders are back at Maidenpool, I heard. Randyll Tarly took the castle and locked Mooton in a tower cell. I haven’t heard shit about Saltpans.”

The other man leaned forward. “Would you put to sea without bidding farewell to your brother? Ser would sooner you returned to Harrenhall with us, Sandor. I bet he would. Though give us a round with your whore and we might forget we saw you.”

“Bugger that. Bugger him. Bugger you.”

The quiet man leaned back again, shrugging. He reached behind his head to rub his neck and the room exploded. Sandor leapt to his feet so suddenly, the bench toppled over, taking Sansa with it. A flash of metal grazed against his ribs before imbedding in the wall behind them. She stayed crouched low as he pulled his sword from the scabbard to block a blow from the first man. The steel crashed and rang faster and louder than the nights he trained with Arya. Sansa found herself inching back, hoping to get out from underfoot.

Arya threw her cup at the squire as he and the other man were rising to join in. Sansa threw her own, but it clattered to the floor long before it reached the man. Sandor was driven back, unsteady, and she realized he was drunk, too drunk to be fighting. With horror, she saw the second man inch along the wall behind him. He ducked as a cup was hurled past his head. His eyes landed on Arya before returning his attention to the fight.

Sandor grunted in pain and the stub of his ruined ear was gone in a wash of blood. Sansa crouched in the corner, watching Arya throwing her knife, the flagon, anything she could get her hands on. Sandor pressed the first man back, cutting and slashing, but all his blows blocked. Suddenly, the second leapt over a bench and cut the back of his neck. He twisted too late, but managed to pull away from the two for a moment’s pause. The two men both came at him then. Sansa shook in fear, helpless, when a hand clamped to her wrist and yanked.

The boy held her wrist painfully tight and threw back the hood of her cloak.

“So _you’re_ the little wolf bitch,” he said. He reached for the laces of his trousers. “Let’s see how well the puppy’s trained you.”

Her right hand was caught in his left, but Sansa struggled against him. Her free hand grasped something at his hip and he pulled it out before sheathing the knife in his stomach. The squire’s cruel laughter died on his lips and they both looked where the blade disappeared into him. She used the handle of the blade to push him away before pulling it back again. The boy staggered, then landed on his bottom, still staring at her and the wound in his stomach. She nearly vomited at the sight of the dark, growing mark centered where she had stabbed him.

She didn’t know how long she sat staring, but a crash from the opposite corner of the room finally drew her attention. Sandor was cornered, but as she looked towards them, his blade came out of the first man’s head. The second man was slowly stepping backwards, not seeing the little mass of brown behind him. A flash of silver into his back and he froze as well.

“Is there gold hidden in the village?” a child’s voice asked him. With a start, Sansa realized it was Arya stabbing him over and over, yelling questions that made no sense. “Is there silver? Gems? Is there food? Where is Lord Beric? Where did he go? How many men were with him? How many knights? How many bowmen? How many how many how many how many? Is there _gold_ hidden in the village?”

Only when Sandor tiredly pulled her away did her sister stop. It was then Sansa remembered the squire and looked back where he had fallen. He was clutching his stomach, as if to stop the bleeding, and coughing. Sandor stood over him and looked to her. Blood seemed to cover his body. His head was wet from the bloody hole where his hear was, a red stream came from his neck, a dark splotch at his side, and he leaned heavily on one leg. His grey eyes still burned with a frightening fire when he saw the knife in her hand.

“Mercy,” the boy wept. “Please. Don’t kill me. Mother have mercy.”

Sandor ignored him. “You’ve killed him, little bird.”

That made the boy cry harder. “I came for the girls… make me a man, Polly said… oh, gods, please, take me to a castle… a maester, take me to a maester, my father’s got gold… it was only for the girls… mercy, ser.”

Sandor knocked him in the head. “Don’t call me ser.” He turned back to Sansa. “You heard him, little bird. Mercy, or he’ll suffer.”

Her stomach squeezed and turned, and she shook her head. Arya approached the boy then, carrying a long, slender blade. Without a word, she slid it into the boy’s chest and back out again. Cleaning it off onto her doublet, her sister approached and yanked the bloody knife from Sansa’s hand. Another twist in her stomach had her at last on her feet and running outside.

She emptied her stomach, sobbed, and emptied her stomach again before Sandor and Arya finally came out. She was pulled into the stables to get the horses and had to be the one to lead Stranger to the door of the inn for Sandor to mount. Movement looked difficult for him and Arya had to help him up but he still lead them down the river at a gallop. Her vision blurred the whole ride and she followed the black smudge of his horse. It was not yet time to weep.


	33. Chapter 33

They came to a stop at an outcropping of rocks by the river. The trees and boulders made a ring on all sides, blocking them from view of anyone passing by river or road. Sandor almost fell when he dismounted and had to catch himself on a tree. Sansa gave a wordless cry and tangled her feet in her stirrups when she tried to go to him.

“Go water the horses, Sansa,” he commanded as he pulled a wineskin and his helm from one of Stranger’s saddlebags.

“You’re hurt,” she whimpered helplessly.

He nodded without looking at her. “We’ll take care of it. Water the horses.” He limped past her, not looking her way, and collapsed against a stone.

Sansa gathered the reins for the three horses and led them down to the river. She crouched between Stranger and Perfect Lady, her empty stomach still churning. No matter how she tried, she could not get the vision of the inn from her mind. The blood seeping from the boy’s tunic turned into Sandor’s leg, who turned into the man Arya stabbed over and over, then back to Sandor losing his ruined ear in a spray of blood. The man in the riots had not bled nearly so much when Sandor had cut off his hand. And he had laughed then, cruelly, but laughed nonetheless. He had not laughed at the inn. His eyes had burned with a frightening fire and he had growled and snarled.

That had been more frightening.

When Stranger nudged her shoulder, she led the three horses back to the little circle. Arya had gathered some wood and the dark hound’s helm sat upside down in the middle of a small fire. A bloody cloak, the squire’s, was thrust into her hands with an instruction to wash it and the horses taken from her. Sandor still sat against the stone, head thrown back and eyes closed with a grimace across his face. Sansa took a step towards him and a twig snapped underfoot.

“Go clean the cloak, Sansa,” he said without looking to her. His voice was flat.

She scrubbed the cloak as hard as she could, the surrounding water turning pink then red. The boy had not been wearing his cloak when he died. There was only one person all this blood could have come from.

There were still spots when she brought it back to the camp. Arya had disappeared, but all three horses remained.

“She’s getting something for me,” Sandor rasped. His eyes were finally open, but he was looking towards her feet rather than her face. “Cut the cloak into strips. So wide.” He gestured with his fingers. “Throw them in the helm with the wine.”

There was only a knife to use, but the cloak tore easily when she followed the stitching of the white bend across it. The wine was starting to steam as she added the cloth, and burned her fingers as she tried to submerge the strips. Arya finally returned as she worked, carrying a short, wide stick that she showed to Sandor. He nodded and gestured for her to come closer. Sansa was not able to hear what he said to her, but she heard her sister promise to do what he had asked. He then sent the girl to his bedroll and pull out a cup. The wine was boiling and some of it was scooped into the cup. Sansa rose to sit with Sandor.

“No!” Arya’s shout startled her. “You have to stay here!”

Sandor still wouldn’t look at her. “I’m only going…” she started.

“ _No_!” Her sister carefully set the cup down, then yanked her arm back to the fire. “Stay _here_!”

 _Is this the promise he made Arya give? That I will not see how badly he is hurt? That I will not see the true extent of his pain?_ Sansa angrily pulled her arm from her sister’s hand and defiantly sat beside him. He had comforted her, it was only right she do the same.

“Sansa,” he moaned in warning, but Arya came with the cup of boiled wine then. One of his hands fisted in her skirt while the other lifted the stick to clamp between his teeth. The wine steamed and pooled in the wound at his leg and he tightened his grip. The seams popped and made a slight ripping sound, but he did no scream in front of Sansa. Next was his neck. Sansa leaned him forward and rested his head on her shoulder, careful not to touch the hole where he lost his ear. She felt the skirt give a little then, and the stick broke with a snap. As Arya went to fetch a new one, Sansa loosened his fist from her lap.

“You’ll be alright,” she said as she stroked his hand. “We’ll get you cleaned and bind your wounds. We’ll make it to Saltpans and find a ship and the three of us will sail to the Free Cities. You and I will be together.” She wasn’t sure whom she was trying to soothe, but kissed his knuckles as he kept his eyes averted, silent and weary.

Arya’s return prompted Sansa to place his hand back in her lap, putting a fistful of her skirts into his grasp. She held his hair out of the way while Arya poured wine over the ruin of his ear. Sandor’s eyes immediately snapped shut and he breathed deeply, growling. As the crust of blood broke away and the hot wine was poured directly to the raw skin, he looked up at Sansa, terrified grey eyes holding her blue ones, and screamed past the stick as her skirts ripped. Then his eyes rolled back and he went limp against her.

Sandor was too heavy for either of them to maneuver, so Sansa held him upright as Arya finished cleaning the wound at his ribs then bound them with the strips of cloth. When they finished, she carefully eased him back until he again leaned against the rock. With a gentle kiss to his temple, she rose and helped hobble the horses before finding something for them to eat. Not far off she found an apple tree, most of the fruit having fallen off and rotting. She picked a pair of half-shriveled apples and brought them back. Digging through the saddlebags, she also found a small bag of nuts.

Sandor had not woken by the time night fell. Arya lay on his left and Sansa his right, stroking the hand that had gripped her skirts so tightly. She was not able to sleep for most of the night and instead traced the lines and calluses across his palm. It seemed foreign to her that this man, who could be rough and brutal in a fight yet still gentle with her, could suddenly become so weak. She could not bear the thought and so only willed him to get better, quietly pleading for him to stop bleeding and recover his strength.

In the morning, his heavy, clumsy hand running across her hair woke her. She had to help him rise, and he moved slowly, as if he was underwater. When it came time to mount the horses, his foot missed the stirrup and she held it in place for him while Arya kept Stranger steady. Her sister took the lead and Sansa tied Stranger’s reins to her own saddle. The great black beast kept up with her own mare and she reached between them often to ensure he was still awake. He said nothing as they rode, all his strength on keeping in the saddle. She squeezed his hand, trying to lend him some of her warmth when she saw him shivering, but they burned with a fire inside him.

Worried, she called a stop. “He needs to rest,” she called to Arya.

Sandor tried to dismount on his own, but collapsed and dragged himself to the trunk of a tree. Wrapping his arms around him self, he shivered violently. Sansa removed her own cloak and draped it over him. “Wine,” he seemed to beg through chattering teeth as she rubbed his arms.

“Bring me some water,” she directed to Arya. She helped him drink it and he fell back into a heavy sleep, moaning. Up close, she realized there was a new, rank smell. Checking his bandages, she found it was his leg, which oozed. “Is there any wine left?”

Arya checked. “A little. He only boiled half the skin yesterday.”

“Boil the rest.”

There was no more fresh cloths, save for the small, unused ones meant to be worn between her legs. Sansa fished them out of her saddlebag and had Arya scrub them in the river with the bindings before they all went into the helm with the wine. With the bandages off, she got a better look at his cuts and saw how deep they truly went. Her shift was still intact and only her skirt torn, so she ripped off a chunk and used it to dab at any blood that seeped while she waited for his bindings.

She had Arya pour the hot wine on his leg first, hoping to clean away the pus. At almost the first drop, his body shook and jerked. Sansa pushed him by the shoulders into tree behind him, though she knew at any moment he would easily throw her off. Before cleaning the others, she held one of the cloths to his leg as Arya wrapped it tightly. They followed the same procedure on his other wounds, and he never fully woke.

“He’s worse,” Arya whispered, pulling Sansa towards the horses.

“He’s hurt. He needs time to heal.”

“He’s _dying_. He needs a maester but we won’t be able to find one.”

“Do you think there will be a maester at Saltpans?”

“I don’t even know how far it is. He could be dead before we get him there.”

“You go. Find a maester and bring him back. I’ll stay here.”

Arya fingered the handle of the thin blade on her right hip. “We’re a pack; we need to go to Saltpans together.”

Sansa blinked, not wanting to understand. “What about…”

Arya turned, drawing the small sword as she did so. It was then the both saw Sandor had been watching.

“Do you remember where the heart is, wolf girl?” Arya didn’t move, hesitating and Sansa circled her, kneeling by him. He pulled from her, eyes locked on her sister. “Do it. Mercy.” Arya still didn’t move. “I killed your butcher’s boy. I cut him in half and laughed.”

Sansa tried to quiet him. “Be still. You’re tired.”

He gave her only a cursory glance before returning his attention to the glinting sword. “I let them beat your sister. I just stood there and watched as they beat and stripped her. I strangled her with my own hand. And I raped her. As often as I could.” Sansa watched as Arya’s face twisted in anger, nostrils flaring.

“Stop,” Sansa choked, hating what he was doing. Sandor ignored her, still focused on Arya.

“ _Do it!_ Mercy. Avenge your little friend, defend your sister’s honor. Do it!”

Arya stepped away and sheathed her blade. “You don’t deserve it. We’re going, Sansa.” She started to prepare Craven and Perfect Lady.

Only now did tears begin to prick her eyes. Arya or Sandor? She had lost everything else: her home, her brothers, her parents. Now she was losing another and being forced to choose which.

“Please,” she could only beg, though she was unsure for what. “Please.”

“Go with the wolf, little bird.” Sandor’s voice sounded odd and when she looked up tears seeped from his eyes. He struggled to a more upright position. “Though a real wolf would finish a wounded animal,” he called weakly.

By this time, Arya was on Craven and holding Perfect Lady’s reins. “You shouldn’t have hit me with an axe. You should have saved my mother. You shouldn’t have hurt my sister. You should have _protected_ her!”

“He didn’t,” Sansa sobbed. “He couldn’t.” She hugged his arm and buried her face in the point of his shoulder. “Please stop. Please don’t do this.”

“We’re going,” Arya said coldly. Sandor slowly closed his eyes and a last tear slid down his flushed cheek.

Sansa rose and walked to her sister. Standing next to Craven, she gently touched Arya’s foot. “It didn’t happen the way he said. He protected me the best he was able, and now I have to protect him.” She looked up and saw her sister’s grey eyes watering and angry. “I have to stay.”

Without another word, Arya kicked Craven forward, leading Perfect Lady, and Sansa was again alone.


	34. Chapter 34

When the little bird disappeared behind the she-wolf’s horse, Sandor was certain she would go. She had to leave. There was no way he could protect her or take her home if he was dead. He only wished the wolf-girl had the courage to give him the mercy he’d begged for. It was cruel to deny a painless death the way she had. When the girl rode away and left the older sister, though, the air seemed to leave him. Abandoning the woman was even crueler.

The exhaustion he’d been keeping off took over and he let his eyes slide shut. An insistent patting to his unburned cheek woke him back up, though. His vision was hazy and for a moment he thought he was drowning in the river. He blinked in confusion, not knowing how he could still breathe. Opening his eyes again, his vision became clearer and he saw he was looking in Sansa’s eyes.

“You called me your mistress,” she stated. Sandor nodded, not understanding why she was talking about it now. “And you still think you’re just a dog?” He nodded again. “Then you’re my dog. As your mistress, I command you to live. I will not let you die.”

Sandor was too weak to laugh and instead shivered. He felt the pressure of her hands rubbing at his arms, but no warmth came to him.

“Please.” She was still speaking. “Don’t leave me. Stay with me.”

He swallowed and licked his lips. “Tired.”

“Promise me you’ll wake up.” He looked away, knowing he could promise no such thing. “Promise me,” she said again, giving his shoulders a shake.

This jostled the cuts at his neck and ribs, and he grimaced. No matter how he tried, no matter how much he hurt, the fever took him into a black oblivion.

He wasn’t sure how long he slept, but he woke to her fingers stroking his hair as she sang. As a child, before Gregor ruined him, Sandor used to sit in the tiny sept at Clegane Keep and imagine the gods the septon worshipped. His favorites had been the Warrior, strong and brave, carrying a sword, and bestowing strength onto the worthy, and the Maiden, beautiful and kind, giving her love to the bravest of knights. He often wondered what the Maiden’s voice would sound like when she sang.

Now he knew there were no gods, but the little bird’s voice would still put the Maiden to shame.

He was gone again, before he ever opened his eyes.

The next time he woke was to shouting. He forced himself into consciousness, certain Sansa was in danger. Until he heard her words.

“You’ve taken _everyone_ from me! You took my father, even though he _confessed_! You took Bran and Rickon, even though they were _children_! You took _Robb_ , and my _mother_! You _can’t_ have him! You’ve taken _everyone_ else! Please, _please_ , leave him. He’s _mine_! He’s all I have. _Please_ , don’t take him!” Sandor’s eyes weakly opened to the thinnest slits. A wash of red sat before his feet, facing a mass of black. For a moment, he thought she was addressing the Stranger. Then the horse neighed. “I _hate_ you! I hate _all_ you gods! You don’t _care_ about mercy and justice! You don’t _care_ about us at all! Why else would you take everyone from me? Why else would you want to take him?” He slipped into the black again, knowing there would be no answer.

When next he woke, there was more singing, but broken. Not the pretty chirps his little bird was so talented at. These were little more than ugly croaks. Had she left him? The time she had stayed was more than he ever deserved from her. She was the Maiden made flesh, deserved the Warrior himself. Sandor knew he should have done things differently, should have worshipped her. There were no gods, but there was her. Any man who held her would have held evidence of divinity. And he had squandered it.

He should have laid her before the heart tree in a godswood, shown her old gods this creature they’d created was the only one worth worshipping. He should have taken her on the seven altars in a sept, teaching her hymns with his fingers and mouth.

Instead, he had tried to push her away, to frighten her off like some rabid dog. Once he did have her, he thought to own her, to selfishly create his own cage for her.

And now she was gone, flown off and away, while some wandering crone sang over him.

Another new voice woke him next. A man’s. And the little bird chirped her little courtesies in response. When had she returned? Why?

He only focused on the sound of her voice as the blackness surrounded him again.


	35. Chapter 35

Sansa was tired. She knew she needed to stay awake, should Sandor need her, should he wake up, so she occupied herself with tending the fire, trying to keep him warm. This did not keep her busy enough, so she first turned to singing. She did not know what songs he preferred, but he had never complained beyond reminding her he was not a hero. So she tried to sing every song she knew. When she started a hymn to the seven, she stopped and began to pray. She prayed to the Father to be just and give Sandor life for protecting her. She prayed to the Mother for mercy and to ease his pain. The Smith for strength, the Maiden to smile upon them, the Warrior to help battle the fever, the Crone to guide her in helping him.

When she reached the Stranger, she paused. The Stranger had taken her family from her. The Stranger had guided Ser Ilyn Payne’s hand in beheading her father. The Mother had turned her back on Sansa’s when the Stranger came to the Twins. Sansa began to feel angry. She had been praying to the gods for so long and yet her prayers came to naught. The new gods did nothing to intervene against Joffrey’s cruelties. And the old gods had done nothing to save Bran or Rickon from Theon Greyjoy.

She started screaming then, yelling blasphemously to gods old and new. She presumed to reprimand them for taking her family. She ordered them to grant clemency to the only person she still had. She begged. She pleaded. She questioned their existence. And her only response came from the horse called Stranger rather than the god of the same name. She found herself crying again.

She went back to singing, her voice strangled and choked from the tears. She felt helpless in the face of Sandor’s raging fever. Blood soaked through his bandages and he shivered, but there was nothing she could do. And so she sang through her tears. The snapping of a twig from the direction of the river broke her from her song.

“Forgive me,” said a tall man in brown robes. “I did not mean to startle you.” He removed his cowl. “Is there any way I may help?”

His head was square, save for the circle his hair had been shaved into. This was a holy man. Sansa sniffled indelicately.

“He’s hurt.” She felt her voice break, but wiped at her tears with her sleeve. “And sick.”

He smiled gently. “I can certainly see he is hurt.” He knelt on Sandor’s other side and gently touched forehead, cheek, and below his jaw. “And quite sick as well.” The man then delicately peeled back the bandages to look at the wounds before replacing them. “I see,” he said lowly when he reached the leg wound. It still oozed with yellow pus. “It’s become infected.”

“Can you help him?” Sansa feared to put hope in him. She got another gentle smile.

“I can try, sweetling.” The way he gave the endearment was different, so unlike she had grown accustomed to in King’s Landing. He said it as though it were true, as though he meant reassurance.

The man took a satchel from his shoulder and began to pull out packets and jars.

“What can I do?” she asked.

He unwound the strip. What had once been a white bend on a squire’s cloak was now purple from wine, with black stains at regular intervals. The cloth she had pressed to the wound itself was slimy. He handed them to her with a small kettle.

“These need to be washed, and we will need some hot water.”

Sansa worked quickly and ran back to the ring. The water sloshed in the kettle, but the brother only kept his kind smile as he put the bandages in to boil over the fire he had built up again. He returned to the pile of herbs he had made and she saw he was crushing some in a little bowl. A water skin and extra jar were kept separate, by another bowl.

“Drizzle a bit of honey into the bowl and slowly mix in the water,” he explained, handing her a small spoon. “Just enough that the honey does not stick.” She took as much care in this as she did in her stitching, applying only a couple drops of water at a time. When the honey flowed rather than clinging to the spoon, she showed him. “Very good. Your companion needs energy to heal. Rub just a little to his lips.” In his stupor, Sandor licked it away. “A good sign. Give him a spoonful at a time; wait until you see him swallow before you give him more.”

Sansa kept her eyes glued to Sandor’s jaw and throat, looking for any tiny sign that he swallowed the concoction each time she gave him more. The traveling brother worked on his leg and she jumped when he spoke again.

“You may call me Elder Brother.”

Sansa flushed, realizing in her grief she had forgotten all her courtesies. “I am… Joy,” she said after a brief hesitation.

Elder Brother’s gentle smile was now sad. “I hope you may someday trust me with the truth. But Joy you will be until then.”

She stole a glance at his work. He was applying a green paste to the wound. She saw it had been cleaned of the pus, with rough stitches of sinew to close it.

“I did no know septons knew anything of healing.”

He chuckled. “I don’t know if any do, sweetling. And I’m not much of a septon. More a contemplative brother, atoning for the sins of my past life.”

She looked again. He was a large man, built like a knight. But brothers of the faith did not sin, did they? She knew it would not be polite to ask such a question. “Do you often travel this way, Elder Brother?”

“Not often nor this far upriver, no. I was fishing when a young girl with a pair of horses asked that I come this way. Someone who may have passed while you tended to your companion, perhaps?”

She fed Sandor another spoon of the watered honey and said nothing.

“Does your companion also have a name?”

“San-” she broke off. He had not given a name in the mountain village, but they still knew who he was. His scars and helm were well known. Had this brother truly never heard of him? If he knew who he tended to, would he continue to help?

“I hope someday you may trust me with his name as well.”

“Someday?”

“Yes, sweetling. Based on his injuries, I think it best if we take him to the Quiet Isle for further tending.”

“What is the Quiet Isle?”

“It is my home and sanctuary, a place of peace, quiet, and contemplation. You will be safe as your companion heals.”

“He promised to keep me safe,” she said to herself.

“I believe he kept his promise. Unless you are hiding your own injuries.” She shook her head. “I must ask, sweeling. Did he force you?”

“No!” Sansa surprised herself with her vehemence. “I was betrothed to a horrible boy. He always had his men hurt me when he was angry. I know he was going to hurt me on our wedding night as well. Sandor was the only one who was ever kind to me, really kind, so I gave him the only thing I could give. He never forced me. The first time, he didn’t even know it was me. He had been drinking and came to my room by mistake. I had decided before then if he ever came to me, I would take him willingly. He thought I was someone else, but I gave myself to him. I’ve tried to tell him so many times that I was willing, that I wanted – that I still want him. But he still thinks he forced me, when he never did.”

She realized she was crying again when a gentle hand rested on her shoulder. “Give him time, m’lady. Time and contemplation, and Sandor Clegane will see the gift was given freely.”

Sansa gasped. “You know who he is?”

Elder Brother gave a small nod. “I suspected. When you gave his name you confirmed it.”

“Then you know who I am,” she said, dismayed. Half the gold in Casterly Rock could be put to good use in the hands of a holy order.

“You are Joy.” He smiled kindly, before becoming serious again. “Now, the Quiet Isle is a place of peace and rest. Everything of war must be left behind.”

They worked quietly, removing Sandor’s sword belt, and piling it with the second sword and some daggers he had hidden in his bedroll. His chain mail and small pieces of boiled leather armor had been stuffed into a saddlebag. Since their fortnight in the village, Sansa saw the mail had started to rust. She added the armor to the pile. Elder Brother arranged everything in the shape of a man, arms crossed, then covered it all in stones. Lastly, he placed Sandor’s helm, the snout of the hound blackened from fire and one ear shorn off from battle, at the head of the grave.

“The Hound is dead, sweetling,” Elder Brother said. “From this day on, he must live only as a man.” Sansa bit her lip uncertainly. Could Sandor live as an ordinary man? Was he going to live? “It is time we go. I have a raft on the river. Will you be able to lead the horse once we get your companion on him?”

“I believe so,” Sansa answered, before holding out her hand. “Stranger, come.” She clicked her tongue the way Sandor did and the horse obeyed, nuzzling her palm.

The brother sharply drew in a breath. “That’s a blasphemous name. It would be best if he was called something else. Driftwood, perhaps?”

Sansa shrugged noncommittally. The stallion was not hers to name, and it felt wrong to agree to change it without Sandor’s permission.

At his direction, she had the horse lie beside Sandor’s body and wait as his massive frame was draped over the saddle. She then pulled the animal back up to a stand and followed Elder Brother to the river. Just as he said, there was a wooden raft pulled up to the shore. The brother pushed it into the water and stepped on first, using a long pole to hold it still. Sansa came next. As she gently rubbed Stranger’s forehead, she pulled on the bridle until he stepped aboard as well. With a nudge, the raft drifted to the middle of the river and floated downstream.

Sansa did not watch where they went, instead soothing the horse and watching the dear cargo. So it was a surprise to her when they came to an abrupt stop. Turning, she saw they had landed on an island at the mouth of the river, the distant banks on either side barely visible.

“Welcome,” Elder Brother said kindly.

She followed up a small hill, to a stable with a thatched roof. There, several brothers took Sandor’s body between them and the group climbed higher, to another building just off the sept. Here, he was placed on a simple bed and blankets were pulled up to his chin, leaving only his bandaged leg exposed. One of the brothers spoke to their Elder before they all departed.

“It is nearly suppertime. Will you join us?”

Sansa shook her head, her eyes on Sandor. He seemed to have grown pale, even in the dim light of the room. She sat on the edge of the bed and placed her hand where she knew his heart to be.

“I will bring some to you, but you will also need to rest, sweetling.” Sansa could not understand how he could still sound so kind.

“I won’t leave him.” To prove her point, she fished his right hand out from under the covers and held it.

At last he sighed. “On the Quiet Isle, men and women do not sleep under the same roof unless they are married. I will not stop you from tending to him during the day, but at night, I must insist you do not stay with him.”

Sansa agreed sadly. “Where must I go?”

“We have cottages for women who visit. After supper, I will lead you to one.”

Reluctantly, Sansa agreed.

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	36. Chapter 36

The Elder Brother studied the young woman as he led her to the women’s cottages. It was clear from the dark circles below her eyes she was tired. He did not know how long she had been with her traveling companion, nor how long she had been crying over him, but from the dark circles below her eyes she seemed ready to dissolve back into tears at any moment. She held herself with the bearing of a noblewoman, but at times she did not speak as one. He heard Sandor Clegane had disappeared with King Joffrey’s first betrothed. With her red hair and big blue eyes, could this be the child?

The reports were also that she was his captive, but her utter devotion to him proved the lie. She refused to leave his side. After supper, he brought her a chunk of bread and a bowl of soup and she still sat on the bed, holding his hand. When it came time for bed, he had to promise one of his proctors would watch over the invalid before she would leave the room. And there was her story in which she had lain with the Hound willingly. From the stories he heard about the man, this would be the first woman to have done so. The Hound seemed to live his life the way the Elder Brother once had, raping anything he could not kill and drinking when there was nothing to rape.

His thoughts strayed to the girl he had loved in his youth. Though his birth was too low for them to marry, it was not nearly as disparate as the female heir to a noble house such as the Starks giving herself, unmarried, to the second son of a house beholden to her enemies. What could an innocent hope for from a union with such a monster as the Hound? Though if the man thought he had taken the gift she gave and regretted it, perhaps there was hope of repentance.

The Elder Brother opened the door to the assigned cottage. The fire had already been lit and the single room had started to grow pleasantly warm. He also confirmed clean robes had been brought with some candles and a pail of water for her to wash.

“It isn’t much,” he said, indicating the straw pallet. “But it’s more comfortable than the wilderness, I wager.”

Joy nodded, shy. “Thank you. It is.”

“May I stay for a moment?” At her agreement, he sat in one of the simple chairs. “I feel I must make myself clear. This is an island of contemplation, not medicine. I will do what I can to heal the body of Sandor Clegane, but it is dependent on if he wants to heal his soul. I know he has done many evil acts. The gods smile on those who are penitent; he would be more likely to recover if he is.” Joy sat on the chair across from him, wringing her hands. “I believe the gods led that girl to me so I may help. I believe the gods meant for your companion to come here, to atone for his sins.”

“I will not leave him,” she said.

“No, sweetling, you need not leave him. But neither do we have women in our order. Women who are ill or great with child will come for me to tend to them, but they do not stay. The brothers have taken a vow of silence and the proctors speak only one day out of every seven. Septons visit and will hear confession, but it may be a year or more between each visit. You may feel quite alone here. No decision is needed now, but it may be best to decide what you will do.”

The woman’s gaze became distant as she thought. “I would like to stay, if I may? Even if Sandor was to join your order, to take vows, I could never leave him. I would take a vow of silence, commit myself to the gods, so long as it meant I could be with him.”

The Elder Brother felt his heart stir at her plea. If the gods meant for Clegane to contemplate on his sins, then he must sacrifice his old life for the new. Seeing a reminder may cause him to go back to his old ways. And yet, seeing her goodness and devotion to him very well may inspire the man to change.

“I will do penance. I have sinned,” she added, mistaking his silence for hesitance.

He smiled. “I do not doubt your devotion, but it is too early to make a decision. I will speak with Clegane when he wakes and seek guidance from the Seven. For now, sleep.”

The girl nodded and the Elder Brother bade her goodnight before making his way back up to the sept. Sandor Clegane still burned with fever, but did not shiver as violently under the blankets and furs. The foul smell from his infected wound had also lessened when he applied a fresh poultice.

The following morning, he visited the patient’s cell again and found Joy in the brown robes left for her, gently bathing Clegane’s forehead. In the light of the dawn, he saw how truly ill she was. She still looked tired, and she was paler than a woman who had been traveling ought to be. Perhaps the gods had sent her to the Isle as well. The garden certainly needed more hands. But first they would need to break their fast. And this morning smelled like bacon and toast.


	37. Chapter 37

At first he thought he was dead. The world was too quiet and no light filtered through his closed lids. He never held to any gods, so this was a fitting punishment. An eternity of absolute nothingness. No lights, no sounds, only his memories to keep him company.

_She ran naked through a field, pale skin glowing in the moonlight. Her hair and lips were dark as fresh blood. She laughed and her eyes glittered and she called for him to join her. He tried to follow, wanted to obey, but his legs were rooted. He opened his mouth but could not call out to her. He was left only to watch as she disappeared from his view._

The next time he woke was to her voice. The gods were kinder to leave him with nothing. He couldn’t make out the words, but rather let the sound wash over him. He imagined her as she had been, all soft curves and auburn and pale. If he opened his eyes, the gods would torture him with how she was, now that he had left her. Broken, bruised, bloody.

_She stood before him, flanked by their mothers, one holding an infant, the other a lantern to light their circle. She wore a gown better than she had ever worn. It floated and fluttered about her like a cloud, her hair hanging soft behind her. He stood armed and armored between their fathers, his sire holding the leads to three massive hounds. And just out of view hovered a figure, certain but unknown. She stepped forward and tied a ribbon around his arm, silver and white. He would have laughed if not for the sincerity in her eyes._

He woke again, this time to the voices of men. He wanted to cry, to beg, to plead, anything to bring her back. Bring her to him. Give him her smile, her laughter. Instead, a pain shot from his thigh down to his toes and up to his chest and he groaned.

_She stood before him again, and alone. Her hair was aflame and yet she was unharmed. She stroked his unblemished left cheek. Her fingers burned and he felt his skin melt and char at her touch. She moved to his shield arm and he screamed, the hair burning off._

The next time he woke, he risked opening his eyes, risked seeing what visions the gods destined him to suffer forever. Instead, he only saw the wooden ceiling beams and stone walls of a small cell. Exhausted, he slipped back into a heavy sleep.

_He was in a garden, surrounded by flowers of blue and red, white and yellow. A young boy sat on a bench, black hair gently curling about his shoulders. He was playing with a toy knight. “Papa!” the boy crowed before grasping his leg. He did not understand. No whore would want to bear a child of his, too revolted at his appearance to be reminded of it. The boy looked up, bright blue eyes set in a too pale face. “Have you come to see Mama? She’s missed you!” “Who is your mother?” he asked. In answer, the boy took his hand and eagerly led him through the garden. He stood before a room and there she lay on a bed, her hair spread about her. In the shifting light under the trees it changed from the dark of fresh blood to the brightness of flame. Her skin seemed to glow in the light. He took a step forward, but the child held back. “I’m not allowed.” The boy’s skin had grown sickly and tight. He watched the little one run back into the garden, take the hand of a veiled figure hidden amongst the trees. He turned back and stepped into the room, laid beside her, kissed her shoulder._

Sandor slowly opened his eyes and immediately regretted it.

Rather than her beautiful blue eyes and brilliant auburn hair, he was greeted with the square, shaven head of a religious brother.

“Welcome back,” the brother said. “You gave us quite a scare. There’s someone who’s been worried about you.”

Sandor tried to speak, but his tongue felt too large for his mouth. The brother lifted his head and slowly poured a bit of water down his throat. He swallowed and tried again. “Sansa?” His voice was rougher and his throat hurt from that one word.

“A young lady named Joy came to this refuge with you.”

The name sounded familiar, but it didn’t fit her. He was certain her name was Sansa.

“Where is she?”

The brother smiled sadly. “There is much we have to talk about, Sandor Clegane.”


	38. Chapter 38

The Elder Brother worried for the young woman. She was up before the sun and last to bed everyday to stay with her companion as long as possible. She was often caught napping beside him, yet she still looked tired. At meals he noticed certain foods made her appear ill. After courteously taking a few bites, she would later be found vomiting the meal back up. He tried to speak to her, convince her she was ill and needed tending to. Instead she would change the subject to their shared patient. She would ask about his fever, did he burn too hot. About his wounds, were they healing as they should. Was he comfortable, would he wake. The Elder Brother was only left with more questions about her.

Then, one day less than a fortnight after her arrival, her symptoms stopped. She slept later than usual, was able to keep down a meal that had previously made her ill, and grew restless waiting for Clegane to wake. He found her in the garden pulling weeds, the hood of her cowl pulled up to block the sun. She worked as though the welfare of the tomatoes was her highest concern, but her expressive face gave the lie as he drew near. Her brow was knit tight and lips pursed as she eyed him warily. Kneeling beside her, he saw how she curled over, as if protecting her stomach.

“Are you well, Joy?” Her nod was tight. “Would you tell me otherwise?” The Elder Brother caught her hesitation. “I am sure Sandor would prefer you to be well and healthy.”

“I feel… odd,” she answered softly.

The Elder Brother rose before assisting Joy to her feet. The color seemed to drain from her face and she wavered as she held his arms tightly. Rather than becoming steadier, though, she clutched her belly and curled tightly on herself. She made no sound. Instead, she carefully straightened, grimacing, and took a step from her gardening. In concern, the Elder Brother kept his arm behind her shoulders, ready to catch her. He slowly led her back to the cottages, pausing for only a moment to ask a brother to bring certain supplies to her cottage.

Once inside, Joy all but collapsed on her pallet. He sat on the floor beside her and soothingly pushed the hood and hair from her face. He had seen these symptoms before, but there were some questions he could not wait for her to answer.

“Joy, I may know what is wrong, but I must ask you something.” She had never looked more like a child to him than the moment she looked at him then. “You said you had lain with him. Was it once, or often?” The confusion and embarrassment on her face told him what he needed. “When was your last moonblood?”

The confusion turned to deep thought, then surprise and terror. “A moon and a half, I think. Almost two. What’s happening? Am I with child?” He nodded. “Is it supposed to hurt this much?” the young girl whimpered.

A knock came at the cottage door before the Elder Brother could answer. Outside waited two brothers with the supplies he had requested. At his direction, they placed two pails of water by the fire, and laid a kettle, tea pot, cup, jar, stone, and bundle of cloths beside the pallet. As the two filed out, he immediately set to work. The stone, smooth and only slightly larger than his hand, was placed on the edges of the fire, followed by the kettle filled with water. As the water heated, he spooned some herbs from the jar into the teapot to steep. As he worked he spoke as calmly as he could to not alarm the child.

“You were with child, sweetling,” he explained. “But I’m afraid you are losing it. There is nothing we can do save lessening your discomfort.”

“But it’s all I have of him,” Joy wept, tears freely streaming from her eyes. “I can’t lose his child.”

The Elder Brother pulled the warm stone from the fire and wrapped it in a cloth. “You haven’t lost the father.” He placed the bundle at her lower stomach and guided her hands to hold it in place. He wiped a tear from her cheek. “I am sorry, sweetling. The heat in the stone will help ease some of the pain.” The kettle was boiling, so he poured the hot water into the teapot. “This tea has chamomile, ginger, and lady’s mantle. It will help as well. There are cloths for you to wear, and water to wash or make more tea. I will bring you supper when it is time. If you need anything-”

“Was it a boy or girl?” she interrupted, voice broken. “Is there a way to tell?”

“Last night I dreamed of a son.” Her voice was still uneven and her eyes unfocused. “A beautiful boy.” She swallowed loudly. “He called me ‘Mother.’ Then he left.”

When no other words were forthcoming, the Elder Brother smoothed back the girl’s hair. “I will check on you soon.” At her shaky nod, he left the cottage and made for Sandor Clegane’s sick room. With out the child to nurse him, someone would need to look in on the patient more often.

The first thing he noticed upon entering the room was that Clegane was no longer sweating. His uninjured leg no longer shook with chill, and the skin of his hand was dry and warm, his forehead no longer burned with fever. His breathing changed and he gave a slow sigh. The Elder Brother took the chair beside the bed, the one that had been brought in for Joy, and waited.

He waited as Clegane blinked blearily before focusing on his face. The man had the same exhausted look as any after fighting for their life, so the Elder Brother did not push him.

“Welcome back,” he said. “You gave use quite a scare. There’s someone who’s been worried about you.”

Clegane’s dry tongue rasped against his chapped lips. He tried to speak and his voice was little more than a dry gasp. The Elder Brother picked up a cup of water beside the bed and used the other hand to carefully elevate Clegane’s massive form. He poured slowly, careful not to drown the younger man. Finished with the water, he waited until normal breathing came back before lowering him down.

“Sansa?”

The Elder Brother tucked the confirmation away. “A young lady named Joy came to this refuge with you.” He hoped Clegane caught the cue. While the other brothers had come to contemplate their sins, there was temptation in a girl of gentle birth. It was better for them to not know than to revert to their old ways and capture her for ransom. He had been careful to refrain from giving more information than the tranquility of the Quiet Isle could survive. Clegane seemed to process his words.

“Where is she?”

He empathized for this man. For days, possibly longer, he had been the center of Joy’s attention and she was his first thought on waking. The Elder Brother knew she should be in his place. “There is much we have to talk about, Sandor Clegane,” he answered sadly.

The Elder Brother explained what he could about finding Clegane by the river, a young red haired woman watching over him. He talked about bringing the man’s unconscious body back to the isle, Joy watching over him until recently, when she had taken ill herself.

“She was with child,” he finished, “but the child has been lost. She is in her cottage now, recovering.”

He was surprised when Clegane took a heavy breath and tears spilled from the man’s eyes. “It’s my fault. I raped her. Never raped any woman but I raped her.”

The Elder Brother sat back in the chair and studied the man. “She tells a different story. She says she had chosen to give herself to you-”

“ _No!_ ” The word was little more than a hoarse whisper, but as strong as a shout. The tears came more freely as he spoke. “I fucked her. I wanted her. I went to her rooms; I couldn’t leave well enough alone. I went over and over. And then I stole her for myself. I said I was taking her home, but I meant to keep her. And I fucked her. Even when we found the sister, I didn’t stop. She never chose me. I never gave her the choice. I was just as bad as her precious king. Now the bastard’s dead, but I’m still alive.” He lay quietly when he finished, his eyes closed and tears streaking from his eyes.

“What would you have her do, now that her family is gone?” the Elder Brother asked quietly.

Clegane took a breath, as though to steady himself. “Go to her aunt in the Eyrie. Her uncle in Riverrun. Doesn’t matter.”

“It seems you are taking the choice from her now. The final decision will be hers; for now she must rest. But the sister, where is she?”

“Gone. Wolf girl took our horses and abandoned her sister with a dying dog.”

“Not abandoned completely. There was a girl who directed me to you. I believe this was the missing sister. And dying you were, but not dead. I believe the sister was able to find me for a reason. You have many regrets. This can be your rebirth as a new man, a chance to atone for the sins of your old life, if you’ll let it. The young woman and I buried the Hound by the river. Are you willing to live as Sandor Clegane?” The younger man nodded. “You will need your energy to do so. Rest, gather your strength. We will speak more later.”

The Elder Brother waited until the man who was once the Hound fell back into sleep before he left. It was clear the man before him had many things to make amends for. Joy – Sansa – would always hang over this man’s conscience until either she was out of his sight or she made it clear her actions and choices had been her own.

He closed the door on the soft snores as he made plans for the healing of his two guests.


	39. Chapter 39

Sansa sat on the path to the women’s cottages, staring out across the water. A book the Elder Brother had leant her sat forgotten in her lap. Her first day in bed, he had brought her two tomes with her supper: a volume of old stories she had once loved, and a volume of law as set down by the Faith of the Seven. It was the latter she had been reading now. Time and again the gods had seen fit to show her life was not like the stories of her childhood and it was time to grow up. Perhaps study of the real world would help her do so, but now she was distracted. A tendril of smoke curled up from the shore across the bay. The orange of fire was gone and all that remained was the dark shadow of the charred buildings.

“Joy?” She had heard the Elder Brother making his way down the path from behind her. Though he spoke softly and lived simply, he still walked like a large soldier. Each time he came near, it took an effort to not shudder in fear, remembering the heavy, thudding steps of _true_ knights and the pain they brought.

“Good morning, Elder Brother.” Sansa’s smile felt tight, painful and tired, but she was still a lady and a lady is always courteous. She turned back to the distant tower of smoke. It had dissipated somewhat, looking fainter.

“May I?” He indicated the ground beside her. At Sansa’s nod, he sat and glanced at the book in her lap. “The Maiden’s Laws?” he asked quizzically.

She looked down at the book. She was only on this page due to how recently she had started the tome. The Maiden’s Laws covered the treatment of unmarried women: the importance of chastity, the punishment for raping a maid, even the prescribed distance that should be maintained between a man and an unmarried woman. So few of these seemed important any more. She returned her attention to the far shore.

“What town was that?” she asked.

“Saltpans.”

She felt a shiver. “We were going to Saltpans. We were going to sell the horses and buy passage on a boat to the Free Cities. Then Sandor got hurt. He was too hurt to ride. Arya, my sister, said he was going to die. She left and wanted me to go with her. But I couldn’t just leave him there, not after everything. She was so angry. At him for not being able to take us home. At me for staying with him.” She felt a tear slide down her cheek, but didn’t remember her eyes welling up. Sansa wiped it away, tired of crying. “She would have headed for Saltpans. Do you think she was able to leave before…?” She could only nod towards the destruction.

“I will pray for her,” the Elder Brother answered. “Was she the one who sent me to you?” She nodded, looking back towards her lap. “It seems despite her anger, she still meant for you to be someplace safe.”

Sansa didn’t think it was fair that she should be safe with her sister gone. “Did everyone die?”

“There are some survivors coming across the bay now. They should be here by midday. I do not know how long I will be tending to them.” They sat in silence for a time and Sansa scanned the water, looking for signs of a boat or raft of people coming to the little refuge. “You have not been to see Clegane since I told you he woke up.”

“I don’t know how to tell him about…” she trailed off as she rubbed her stomach. Hadn’t she once told Sandor she would have gladly born his children? Why had she lost this one? “I don’t know what happened.”

The Elder Brother took her hand and held it. “The gods willed it, Joy. It was through no fault of yours or Clegane’s. There is no need to determine who or why. He has wronged many and has chosen to remain here for penitence. The child is gone and you are young. You may one day have others by a good man.”

“I thought about what you said. The lessons you gave during supper yesterday? To contemplate on our actions and how they impact others, on how those actions would impact us if others committed those sins against us.” Her finger slid listlessly down the page. “If a man came to me under false pretenses… if I thought he was someone else and he let me think it, would he not have forced himself on me?” She waited for her companion to agree. “I gave my maidenhead to Sandor under false pretenses. He came to me thinking I was someone else and I let him continue to think so as we coupled. Would this not mean I raped him?”

Sansa watched from the corner of her eye as the Elder Brother contemplated her words. “Clegane seems to feel differently about the initial incident, though the circumstances are troubling.” The hand holding hers was gentle, the way her father had held it so long ago. “How do you feel, thinking back on it?”

“I feel guilty for the deception, but not for giving myself to him. I had nothing that was mine. Even my maidenhead was to be given to someone else. I was meant to marry someone who would hurt me and would enjoy my maidenblood. He was probably going to make me bleed every night until I gave him a son. I could not do that, could not live like that. I tried to escape, but it did not work. I wanted just one thing that was mine.” Sansa finally looked at the Elder Brother, finding strength in what she said. “I love him. That is mine and no one can take it from me. But I have sinned against him.” Her finger traced the illuminations on the page. “I have wronged him, but I cannot give myself to another man after knowing him. If you will let me, I will stay here to do penance for my sins.” She was nervous as she finally looked on the square face of the Elder Brother.

“We have no women in our order, sweetling.” Sansa saw the pity in his eyes. “And as a member of our order, Clegane has chosen to give up his relationship with you, as it is, as a sign of his commitment.”

Sansa felt her heart shattering in her chest. Was it really so easy for him to set her aside? “I will not stay for him.” Her voice sounded strained to her own ears and she cleared her throat. “I have committed sins against the gods. I gave up my maidenhead, I ran from my betrothed. I was raised knowing these are unforgivable. No man will want me as a wife after the crimes I have committed. I have no where to go. I must atone. Even though I can not become a member of your order, I think I can help here as my own penance. I could garden or…” She trailed off and looked towards the horizon and the distant smoke.

“Perhaps you can help.” The Elder Brother spoke as gently as always. “I could use an extra pair of hands with the refugees from Saltpans.” He rose beside her. “We shall start early tomorrow, so I suggest you rest tonight. Will you join us for supper first? I believe it will be fish stew.”

Sansa wrinkled her nose and nodded. Fish was the main ingredient to every dish on the island, but the cooks were able to find ways to vary each meal.

“I will see you then, Joy.” The Elder Brother nodded in farewell before making his way back up the path.

“Sansa,” she called after him. “My name is Sansa.”

The Elder Brother gave a small bow and continued back up the path. Sansa Stark, formerly of Winterfell, orphaned and alone, turned back to the water before rising. It was time to change her cloth and she was still tired after losing her child. She needed to rest before supper. She had not gone to see Sandor since he woke, but last night he had taken the evening meal with everyone else. He did not need to know how poorly she really felt.


	40. Chapter 40

Sandor struggled not to curse as he all but collapsed against the wall. A vow of silence meant nothing if he didn’t actually keep silent. Despite the Elder Brother’s orders, he restlessly crawled out of his sickbed the first chance he got. Rather than an argument, he was given a walking stick. Sandor discarded it the first time he felt steady, hating how old it made him feel. After a few steps though, his leg would hurt or spasm and he would feel old anyways. He hated that. In the prime of his life, he had grown old before his time.

By the time he made it to the dining hall, his brow was damp with sweat. Many of the other brothers were already seated, but a space was open at the end of a table. As he slowly limped his way to the bench, Sandor scanned the room, looking for Sansa’s auburn hair. He had seen her eating during the morning and evening meals his first two days out of bed. The dull brown of the brothers’ robes made her appear all the brighter. But after that second supper he had not been able to see her amongst them. So far his one regret was that he had taken his vow of silence too soon, unable to ask the Elder Brother what happened to her.

The brothers broke their fast the same as they had every meal: simply. Fresh loaves of bread and eggs. As he ate, Sandor half listened to the Elder Brother and his proctors read teachings from the _Seven-Pointed Star_. Something about finding your own forgiveness. He let out a snort of contempt, remembering his vow too late. What good would it be to forgive himself? All the men he killed in battle, all the women and children he slaughtered under orders were just as dead. She was just as gone. He couldn’t blame her for it, not after everything, not after he failed to take her home, failed to protect her.

The meal done, Sandor rose with the other novices to clear the tables. He reached for an empty platter and grasped it at the same time as a tiny hand. The owner was small for a man but too large for a child and the little hand shook as it was pulled away. Without looking at him, the boy turned and fled. He rolled his eyes in annoyance. Even with their faces covered and forced silence, others were still afraid of him. Why should he forgive his actions when others had already decided, crippled and weak, he was still a dangerous man? Sandor put the other novice out of his mind and finished cleaning the tables from breakfast.

Sandor had taken his vows shortly before word reached the island that Saltpans had been sacked. Bodies could be seen distantly floating in the bay and refugees came in each day, many on their last breath. He wasn’t surprised the Elder Brother would think to assign the biggest man on the isle to grave digging. Most of the residents were old men, too feeble for the hard work. And the boy.

That was what Sandor decided the novice at breakfast was. Too short for a man, hands too small, so it must have been a boy. He briefly wondered what the lad could have done to justify what could be a very long life cut off from the world. Thoughts of the boy turned into thoughts of Sansa. She had been absent for a number of days, which could only mean she had left the Quiet Isle. He regretted her departure and hated himself for selfishly wanting her to stay close. Where ever she was, he wondered if she was safe. With the razing of Saltpans, it was unlikely she had gone there. Perhaps a brother took her to Maidenpool, found her passage to the Free Cities. Maybe she would be able to find her sister. Find a rich merchant prince, marry him, and give the undeserving bastard children.

The work was hard. Digging graves was not meant for a cripple. He had to rest often and get off his injured leg. Every movement was a reminder that he could never leave. He could never mount Stranger to ride after her, could never hold himself up long enough to kill his brother. Sandor Clegane, the fearsome Lannister Hound, had died by that river from an infected wound. Now, he lived only as Brother Sandor, a penitent man with only one good leg and a life of regrets to atone for.

Or so the Elder Brother told him.

By midday, he stood inside the grave he was digging, the walls only up to his knees. The climb out would be painful, but better than the constant hurt from bending so far over on every scoop. A clod of earth falling back into the hole had him looking up. The boy from that morning stood at the head of the grave, holding a bucket and ladle. The boy pulled the ladle out to show he carried water. Sandor pulled the cowl from his mouth and deeply drank two ladlefuls. After the second, he looked up the boy to nod his thanks and paused.

The boy’s eyes were blue. Far too blue and far too wide. Sandor knew those eyes.

After a heartbeat, she pulled the pail from him and ran, water sloshing wildly from the pail. Sandor could only watch as she disappeared through the door in the hill, where the Elder Brother did his work. Sansa was on the Quiet Isle. Why?

“She is assisting me with the ill and what few ravens we receive. She feels she has her own sins to do penance for,” the Elder Brother explained several hours later. Sandor scowled. What sins could someone as perfect as the Maiden have committed? “Her thoughts are her own. Do not press her. Many things have happened to her and she needs time to heal. Let her. Perhaps in time you many heal as well. For now just let her be.”

Sandor nodded. Questions he could not ask ran through his head. Did she know why he had taken vows? Did she understand? Was there something he could have done to change her mind? Something to make her see she had nothing to regret? He struggled up from the driftwood bench in the Elder Brother’s cell. His leg nearly gave out on his way to the door, and he hesitated before leaving.

The Elder Brother seemed to read his thoughts. “She does not blame you for anything.” Sandor nodded once before stepping back out into the light of day. There were graves that needed dug.


	41. Chapter 41

Sansa saw the small band crossing the bay as she climbed the hill to the Elder Brother’s cell in the Hermit’s Hole. Three ahorse and one on foot, with a dog darting between them, and a mule led by the one walking. After watching a moment, she turned back up the trail and entered the door to the cave. Visitors or no, she had tasks to perform.

“There is a group coming across the Path of Faith,” she said softly. Speaking felt odd in this world of silence. “One walking and three riding. Plus a mule and dog.”

The Elder Brother seemed to think over her words before nodding with a small smile. “The one walking may be Septon Meribald. Tell Brother Narbert our guests are coming. And have Brother Gillam prepare the stables. I will meet them here.” He started to straighten the notes and letters on his table as she left again.

Sansa had some idea of the contents but knew the visitors did not need to see them. At first, he had been hesitant to share any news of the outside world with her, saying he meant to keep peace on the island. After he caught her stealing glances at the words – twice – the Elder Brother began to divulge more information to her. Saltpans had been ravaged by a monster in a hound’s head helm. Reports of the Hound raping and pillaging up the Trident nearly as far as the Red Fork came in almost regularly over the past few months. At first she had been angry at Sandor being falsely accused of these tragedies. Then the Elder Brother spoke with her for a time, apologized for being the one to leave the helm at the head of the Hound’s grave. After that, she felt sorry for the smallfolk fearing for their lives.

He shared other news with her as well. Lord Tyrion Lannister was tried by combat over King Joffrey’s death, with Prince Oberyn Martell as his champion against Ser Gregor Clegane. Lord Tyrion was found guilty, but Ser Gregor had suffered an agonizing death from Prince Oberyn’s poisoned spear. Sansa felt wicked but was glad the monster had suffered and that Sandor had not become a kinslayer. Lord Tyrion had also disappeared after killing Lord Tywin. Prince Tommen had been crowned king and married to Joffrey’s widow, her Aunt Lysa had married Lord Baelish, the faith militant of old had been reinstated…

The world outside had been so busy Sansa was nearly able to forget her life had been reduced to this tiny bit of land at the mouth of the Trident. At first, she feared the pain should she see Sandor everyday. The Elder Brother had thought they needed to grow used to seeing one another and had sent her to give him water at the grave he dug. Sandor’s evident surprise when he recognized her proved that to be a disaster and she had begged to do anything else. Now she ran errands, tended to less serious patients, cleaned up after the Elder Brother, and made his tea. Her tending to him had him affectionately dubbing her “Mother.” The idea of her mothering a man three times her age sometimes made her giggle.

Stranger’s restless snorts could be heard before she entered the stables. She gently tapped Brother Gillam on the shoulder. “There are visitors coming. Three horses and a mule.”

The brother nodded his understanding and went back to mucking out the warhorse’s stall. She gave the beast a quick scratch on the nose before making her way out to find Brother Narbert. She knew the horse hated to be confined, but no one could control the animal as well as Sandor could. Almost a month previously, a decision was made to geld “Driftwood.” Brother Gillam lost his ear and Stranger remained intact and eternally penned in. Sansa decided to ask the Elder Brother for permission to exercise the horse. Maybe that would prove calming.

Brother Narbert was harder to find. As his one day to speak, he was busy ensuring the day’s tasks were done. Sansa eventually found him overseeing the preparations of wine to be sold. When she relayed the Elder Brother’s message, a skin of cider was pressed into her hand to take back up the hill. Her path took her past the small cemetery and her heart felt ready to escape from her chest as she tried not to look towards the gravedigger. She ensured her cowl covered her face before continuing on her path. Her resolution broke after she passed and she glanced back. Sandor’s back was to her, flinging a shovelful of dirt over his shoulder. Sansa turned back towards the Hermit’s Hole and entered through the door.

“Brother Narbert sent cider up for the visitors.” Sansa set it on the table before she started putting books away and lighting extra candles.

Just as she finished making the sanctum presentable for visitors, Brother Narbert escorted the group into the Elder Brother’s cave. One of the men was a traveling septon the Elder Brother greeted with a hug, and was followed by the dog she had seen. The animal was large, but friendly, sniffing at Sansa’s feet until she gave it a scratch behind the ears. When she looked to the other visitors, she was startled to find one of them was a homely woman almost as tall as Sandor and heavily armored. The septon introduced the band to the Elder Brother, casting a curious glance towards Sansa. She made note of the Elder Brother introducing her as “Mother Joy” before inviting the guests to sit. The Elder Brother did not give her true name to anyone without her permission, for which she was grateful.

“You must be thirsty,” he said after Septon Meribald explained the travelers were on their way to Saltpans. He began pouring cups of cider. “Please, have some of our sweet cider to wash the dust of travel from your throats.” Sansa helped serve, silently regretting she had no food to share as her mother had taught her. The woman, Brienne, complimented the uniqueness of each cup. “My lady is too kind,” the Elder Brother answered. “All we do is cut and polish the wood. We are blessed here. Where the river meets the bay, the currents and tides wrestle one against the other, and many strange and wondrous things are pushed towards us, to wash up on our shores. Driftwood is the least of it. We have found silver cups and iron pots, sacks of wool and bolts of silk, rusted helms and shining swords… aye, and rubies.”

Sansa focused on her cup to not glance at the small chest hidden under the bed. She had found it and the six rubies it contained the month before. When she asked, she was told they were being saved for the winter, to buy what could not be saved before the frost. In another life she would have imagined the gems set into necklaces and bracelets. Now she only saw months, or even years, of supper for the brothers. The talk of corpses brought her back from her reverie.

“Too many corpses, these days,” the Elder Brother was sighing. “Our gravedigger knows no rest.”

Sansa knew this as well as anyone. Some mornings she left her cottage to find Sandor digging before breakfast and he continued until there was too little light in the evening. After the disastrous first time she took him water, she did not think she could stand to risk being so near him again. Since then, she had left the pail when he wasn’t looking if she couldn’t find someone else to deliver it for her. The bodies came in too quickly to keep up with. Often, a grave would be dug with its new resident right beside the hole.

The Elder Brother turned to Septon Meribald. “I hope you have time to absolve us of our sins. Since the raiders slew old Septon Bennet, we have had no one to hear confession.”

“I shall make time,” the wandering septon answered. “Though I hope you have some better sins than the last time I came through.” The dog barked. “You see? Even Dog was bored.”

Sansa tried not to giggle at the dog being named Dog. She briefly wondered if it was common for septons to have no skill in names. The woman eyed her quizzically and Sansa coughed as if she was merely trying to clear her throat. Brienne’s traveling companions ignored them both.

“I thought no one could talk. Well, not no one. The brothers. The other brothers, not you,” the boy, Podrick, said. It was then Sansa recognized him. Lord Tyrion had taken the boy on as a squire, but he had grown in the months since she fled King’s Landing. He was still uncomfortable with drawing attention to himself, but he no longer resembled a frightened rabbit. Sansa wished she could ask what had happened in the months since she fled the city.

“We are allowed to break silence when confessing,” the Elder Brother explained. “It is hard to speak of sin with signs and nods.”

“Did they burn the septon at Saltpans?” the knight, Ser Hyle Hunt, asked. Sansa did not recognize him at all and concluded he must be a lesser knight. Or at some time fought on the side of the enemy, though she wasn’t sure who that was anymore. The Lannisters had been Robb’s enemies, but the Baratheons had been the ones to attack King’s Landing.

“They burned everything at Saltpans, save the castle. Only that was made of stone… though it had as well been made of suet for all the good it did the town. It fell to Mother Joy and me to treat some of the survivors.” Sansa remembered one of the women who had come, raped bloody, and her breasts were ripped, torn, and eaten as though by an animal. She could only hold the woman in her arms as she died and weep for lost innocence, though she wasn’t sure if it was hers or the dead woman’s. That night, the Elder Brother told her the castle at Saltpans was held by Ser Quincy Cox, who had locked himself inside during the raid and helped no one. She remembered another who had run during battle from those she was meant to protect and felt no pity for the knight. She remembered other knights who took pleasure administering pain to the weak rather than defending them.

After supper, the Elder Brother beckoned for Sansa to come with him and Brienne to the women’s cottages. She noticed a look of hurt briefly cross Podrick’s face before he, Ser Hyle, and Septon Maribald were lead to the cloisters. She wondered again what had happened between the loyal squire and Lord Tyrion. On their way to the cottages, the Elder Brother asked the maiden warrior what she sought in Saltpans.

“A pair of girls,” she said. “One a maid of three-and-ten, with a fair face and auburn hair.” Sansa was glad of the darkness to hide her surprise.

“Sansa Stark,” the Elder Brother confirmed softly. “You believe this poor child is with the Hound?”

“The rumor in King’s Landing is that he stole her during the battle of the Blackwater. The Dornishman said that she was on her way to Riverrun. Timeon. He was a sellsword, one of the Brave Companions, a killer and a raper and a liar, but I think there may have been some truth in this. He said that the Hound stole her and carried her away. The stories must have some truth to them.”

“I see.” The Elder Brother allowed the woman to pass so he could help Sansa down the last bit of slope to the cottages. He silently watched her, as though to gauge her reaction to the news that she was being looked for. When they reached the cottages, they entered one of the huts and Sansa set to work tending to fire and ensuring there were enough furs, water, bread and cheese, and cider to meet the guest’s needs. The Elder Brother sat in one of the chairs. “May we stay for a while? I feel that we should talk.”

“If you wish,” Brienne answered. Sansa continued tending to the small fire, trying to make herself unnoticed.

“The rumors are not entirely true and your Dornishmen did not lie. The Hound did not steal her, though she did leave the night of the battle. The wolf running towards Riverrun is another wolf, my lady. Eddard Stark had two daughters. It was the other one Sandor Clegane caught, the younger one.”

“ _Arya_ Stark?” The woman stared slack-jawed a moment. “You know this? Lady Sansa’s sister is alive?”

“Then,” answered the Elder Brother. “Now… I do not know. She may have been amongst the children slain at Saltpans.”

“But Lady Sansa…”

“Disappeared at the same time as Sandor Clegane, yes. He did not steal her, though, as she belonged to none from whom she could be stolen.”

Brienne paused, clearly thinking it over. “Then she must be with him. But the sister, how could she have gotten away? And you’re not certain she was at Saltpans?”

“I’m certain both the girls were with Sandor Clegane at the inn beside the crossroads, the one old Masha Heddle used to keep, before the lions hanged her. I am certain they were on their way to Saltpans. Beyond that… no. I do not know where the younger girl is, or even if she lives.” Sansa had told all this to the Elder Brother, but was relieved at how careful he was to not reveal her identity. “There is one thing I do know, however. The man you hunt is dead.”

“How did he die?”

“By the sword, as he lived.”

“You know this for a certainty?”

“I buried him myself. Mother Joy assisted me.” Sansa kept her head ducked down, but nodded in agreement. “I can tell you where his grave lies, if you wish. We covered him in stone to keep the carrion eaters from digging up his flesh, and set his helm atop the cairn to mark his final resting place. That was a grievous error of mine. Some other wayfarer found my marker and claimed it for himself. The man who raped and killed at Saltpans was not Sandor Clegane, though he may be as dangerous. The riverlands are full of such scavengers. I will not call them wolves. Wolves are nobler than that... and so are dogs, I think.”

Sansa listened as the Elder Brother continued on, describing Sandor’s life from what he had gleaned from her and from speaking with Sandor himself. She knew his life was difficult, tortured at a young age by his brother, raised to be an obedient Lannister dog. She also knew he never expressed regret for wanting to kill his brother or for the other deaths he caused. She pitied the man Sandor could have been, if he had been allowed to retain his admiration of knights, if he had been sworn to any family but the Lannisters, if, if, if.

“But Lady Sansa,” the woman asked. “If the Hound is dead, where is she?”

Sansa watched the Elder Brother study Brienne, watched the warrior maid stare back. “She is safer in hiding than she ever was in King’s Landing,” he answered. “Give up this quest of yours. The Hound is dead, and in any case Sansa Stark was never in any danger from him. As for this beast who wears his helm, he will be found and hanged. The wars are ending, and these outlaws cannot survive the peace.”

He continued on, urging her to return home, but Sansa only had eyes for the woman. At each word, she looked more and more heartbroken. Sansa wondered what sort of life an uncomely woman could have with her father or as a bride. She had seen how cruel men could be and remembered how heartless she had been to her sister. Sansa herself had been raised to be the lady of some great house, but Tarth was so small she knew Brienne would need a high dowry to have the same life. Perhaps as a warrior maid her life was fulfilled. Sansa wondered what if she herself could also do anything beyond being some lord’s wife.

“I swore my loyalty to Lady Stark,” the woman was saying. “I swore her my sword and my life. She sent me with Jaime – Ser Jaime – to King’s Landing to trade him for her daughters. But by the time we arrived, they were both gone. Arya had been missing since before Lord Stark was beheaded and presumed dead, and Lady Sansa since the battle of the Blackwater. But Jaime sent me to find Lady Sansa and get her somewhere safe. I can’t stop looking for her. Ned Stark’s Valyrian sword was made into the one I carry and Jaime named it _Oathkeeper_ and sent me to keep my oath to Lady Stark. She’s dead, but her daughter – daughters – are still alive and I had promised I would protect them. I _have_ to find her,” she finished. “There are others looking, all wanting to capture her and sell her to the queen. I have to find her first. I promised Jaime. _Oathkeeper_ , he named the sword. I have to try to save her… or die in the attempt.”

As she followed the Elder Brother from the cottage, Sansa knew she had to help this woman in her quest.


	42. Chapter 42

Brienne sat on the pallet after the Elder Brother and Mother Joy left the cottage. Something about the shorter woman’s eyes tickled a memory and she tried to place them. The aggravating part was that she was certain she had never met a woman named Joy. She had worn with her hood up and cowl covering her mouth and nose, and she had been silent as she served cider and tended to the fire, so there were no other clues Brienne could use to place the familiar eyes. She tried to contemplate Mother Joy’s eyes as she nibbled at a bit of bread and cheese and finished a cup of the cider. The late hour and days of travel caught up with her, though, and she felt herself starting to nod off. She tiredly disarmed and lay on the pallet in her tunic and trousers.

It felt as though her eyes had only closed for a moment before she was jarred awake by a knocking at the door. She fumbled in the darkness for a candle to light as she called the visitor to enter. She was startled to see Mother Joy come inside the small cottage. She started to rise when the smaller woman held out her hand in a gesture to stay in place.

“I apologize for coming to you so late,” Mother Joy whispered softly. Something in her accent was so desperately familiar to Brienne. “I wanted to speak with you, but the Elder Brother must not know.”

“I will not say a word,” she answered. “What is it, septa?”

The holy woman’s eyes crinkled slightly, as though she was smiling. “Oh, I am no septa. The order does not accept women, so I am hardly a novice, either. No, I am here because I am in mourning. But I wish to know about you, about why you are here.”

“I’m going to Saltpans,” Brienne started.

“And looking for Lady Sansa Stark, yes, I know. But why? What would you do with once you found her?”

Brienne felt her brow furrow. She had answered a similar question earlier this same evening. “To keep her safe. To protect her and fulfill my oath to her mother.”

“But protect her from whom? Her mother was killed and you were sent by her family’s enemies.”

Brienne paused, thinking it over. “Jaime has done terrible things, but I believe he wants to regain some of his honor. He knows Lady Sansa would not be safe in King’s Landing and sent me to keep her safe. I would find a place for her. In the north, or Tarth, if needs be. But I must find her.”

“You feel your oath still holds though her mother is dead?”

Brienne nodded. “I do. I failed Lady Stark by not bringing her daughters to her as she lived. Lady Arya may have perished in Saltpans, but Lady Sansa could still be alive. In their mother’s memory, I must fulfill my oath to see at least Lady Sansa safe. There is no knowing what the Hound may have done to her in the months he’s had her, but now that he is dead, I must find her and protect her. The Lannisters will use her to gain control of the north. Lord Stannis as well. I can not let anything happen to her if I can prevent it.”

Brienne watched as Mother Joy sat, contemplating her words. “What if the Lady Sansa is already safe?” she asked. “What if she is hiding and does not want to be found?”

“I must know for certain. I must see that she is well and safe with my own eyes. And then I will stay or go as she commands.”

Mother Joy’s hands fluttered before her before pulling down the cowl hiding her face and pushing back her hood. In the weak candlelight, the soft, wavy hair that tumbled out was red, her skin fair. Brienne knew from earlier in the day her eyes were blue. She guessed the girl’s age to be six-and-ten at the most.

“I am Sansa Stark,” she whispered. “My father was Lord Eddard Stark, my mother,” here her voice caught a moment, “my mother was Lady Catelyn. I had three trueborn brothers: Robb, Bran, and Rickon. They are all dead, now. I have a half brother, my father’s bastard son Jon, serving the Night’s Watch at The Wall. My sister, Arya, was still alive when last I saw her, heading towards Saltpans. She wanted to go to Braavos and I pray to the Seven every day that she found a ship and left before the slaughter began.”

Brienne’s mouth hung open and she snapped it shut. In the darkness, this woman bore a resemblance to Lady Stark, but that would never be enough. What could she say, what proof could she ask from this girl to prove her claim? But what could some girl hope to gain by lying? A ruined castle, a dead family?

“I did leave King’s Landing with Sandor Clegane, but I was never in any danger from him. I love… loved him and would have sought Robb’s permission to marry him. We found my sister and he took us to the Twins, but then the killing started just as he arrived and he carried us away. We stayed in a mountain village for a time. We had to leave because the villagers would not give us shelter for the winter. We were going to Saltpans to find a ship east when we stopped at the inn at the crossroads. The men there recognized Sandor and started a fight. The men died, but Sandor was grievously wounded. Arya wanted us to leave him by the Trident to die as we continued on. I had only just found the last of my family and did not want to be parted from her, but I could not leave him. She found the Elder Brother and told him where to find us. I have been here in the months since.”

Brienne sadly shook her head. “I apologize, Mother, but I must know if you are who you claim, though I do not know how.”

It was the girl’s turn to furrow her brow. “There must have been something my mother told you that only those in my family would know,” she suggested.

Brienne thought it over. “She told me what Lady Sansa used to call her sister.”

“Arya Horseface,” the girl answered. “But anyone who as been through Winterfell knows that. I was so horrible to Arya for not acting like a lady. Her sewing was always crooked, her hair a messy and clothes dirty. She would have preferred to have been born a boy, I know. She wanted to grow up to be a knight. She tended to prefer spending time with Jon and always tried to out do Bran in the practice yard before someone would drag her back inside.”

Brienne smiled. Lady Catelyn had said the same things as she had reminisced each of her children. She had not known the name was commonly known, but the way the girl spoke with such regret over the jape was proof enough for her. She rose to one knee.

“Lady Sansa,” Brienne answered. “I can take you from here at any time. I am at your service.”

A tiny hand rested softly at her shoulder. “Please, do not kneel. Hiding on this island I am little more than Mother Joy and I am safe here for it. But I do worry about my sister. Knowing her fate is what I want. If you are at my service, go to Braavos and find her. Please make sure she is safe. She can find me here.”

“But how can an island of religious brothers keep you safe, my Lady?”

“You saw how difficult it is to cross from the mainland, and many of the brothers are former soldiers who know how to protect themselves if need be.”

Brienne nodded, remembering the Elder Brother’s build and the size of the gravedigger. Lady Sansa’s life would be safe on this island of strangers. “I will go to Braavos to find Lady Arya and send her or word of her fate to you.”

“Thank you,” Lady Sansa whispered before covering her hair and face. “Arya has brown hair and grey eyes. She’s skinny with a long face. When last I saw her, she had short hair and could be mistaken for a boy, though she’s one-and-ten. Please find her.”

The Lady of Winterfell squeezed Brienne’s hand a moment before quietly sliding out the door. She tried to picture Arya Stark, a girl of one-and-ten, short brown hair and grey eyes. She absently nibbled at the bread as she thought about what was said about the girl’s personality. A high born girl who preferred swords to needles. The image was a familiar one and she smiled. When she found the Lady Arya, she would encourage her martial skill, rather than trying to force her from it. Maybe she would be willing to come back to her sister then. Brienne slept better than she had in a long time.


	43. Chapter 43

The sky slowly lightened in the east, signaling the impending new day. He knew with autumn starting and winter fast approaching, the days were naturally growing shorter. But that did not account for the seemingly impossible lengths of the nights. As the first rays of color entered the world, he thrust the spade into the earth and lifted out a clod of a corpse’s new home. This was all he could do, all he wanted to think about. Dawn never seemed to come as he lay awake each night.

A shallow patch of earth nearly as long as he was tall was cleared by the time the bell was rung for breakfast. Sandor dropped his spade and trudged up to the kitchens. He was tasked with serving meals and cleaning up with the other novices. The brothers nodded thanks or ignored him as he laid out the platters of eggs and toast. When he sat to break his own fast, he did the best he could avoid turning his attention to Sansa’s small form. Instead his eyes were drawn to the large woman and her two companions. They had arrived the day before with a traveling septon, on their way to the ruin that had been Saltpans. The boy seemed familiar, though he could not place the lad’s face.

Sandor attempted to put the trio from his mind. They and the outside world had naught to do with him. His world consisted now only of tables to clean and graves to dig. And memories. Memories of soft red hair and bright blue eyes, gentle touches and sighs.

A great clatter caused him to jump before he realized he had dropped the empty platter he had been carrying back to the kitchens. Annoyed at where his thoughts had wandered, he snatched it back up and stomped from the dining hall.

After helping clean, Sandor returned to the grave he had begun digging. He focused completely on lifting the dirt out and preventing more from filling in the hole. The sun slowly arced overhead as he dug. Drive the spade into the earth. Lift a pile of dirt out. Move it to the side. It was easier than thinking, easier than remembering. This was all he was good for anymore. Perhaps the presence of these outsiders would remind the girl of all her dreams and stories of the outside world. Perhaps she would leave again. He hurled a shovelful of dirt further than he intended at that thought.

“Be careful, Brother Sandor,” a kind voice spoke behind him. Turning his head, he found the Elder Brother crouching at the edge of the grave. Waist deep in the hole, he found they were nearly eyelevel. “Our departed friend’s new resting place deserves care.”

Sandor grunted and turned back, placing the next shovelful carefully to the side. He felt the Elder Brother watching him as he worked for a time. A drop of sweat dripped from his forehead and he hissed as the salt stung his eye. The shovel was driven into the earth and he rubbed the sweat away. Not since he was a green boy, training at the sword, had he worked so hard. A small cloth was stuffed into his fist and he gratefully dried off.

“You may need that again,” the Elder Brother said when he tried to return it. “You have worked hard, Brother Sandor, and need a rest. Please, join me.”

He turned and walked away, giving Sandor no choice but to climb out of the grave, using the shovel as a crutch. The path they followed was the longer of two to the hermit hole, but it was also the less steep up the hill. By the time they reached the door in the side of the hill, a new sheen of sweat covered at his forehead. The wound in his leg throbbed. In the comfortable cool of the cave, Sandor sat uninvited on a stool with a grunt, stretching his aching leg in front of him. He nodded his thanks when the Elder Brother handed him a cup of cool water. He knew this was not what it appeared, but could do nothing to end the charade.

“Please, rest.” The Elder Brother moved towards the door. “I believe there is someone who wishes to speak with you while you are here.”

Sandor closed his eyes in defeat. He knew he could not keep the world away for long. One of the visitors had appeared to be a knight. Whomever he was, Sandor’s scars would surely have been enough to give him away. The knight had surely come to fight him and save Sansa. Sandor knew he would not fight, not unless he meant to take her back to the Lannisters. She wanted a knight in shining armor, not…

“Hello, Sandor,” a soft voice spoke from behind him.

He started and turned. In loose, dun colored robes, hair covered, Sansa gave him a strained smile. He started to rise, but pain shot through his leg and he collapsed back to the stool again. Instead he opened his mouth to say he knew not what, and closed it again. Even if he disregarded his vow of silence, there was nothing he could say. Instead he could only turn and sip the water.

“Does your leg hurt?” He rolled his eyes. She started rummaging through boxes. “Of course it hurts. It has been months and you still are unable to put your weight on it. It was foolish of me to ask.” When Sandor looked up, she was pointedly not looking at him. In her hand was a small, familiar vial. “I could give you a few drops of milk of the poppy. Not enough to affect your mind, but still able to alleviate some of the pain.” He watched her eyes raise slightly, looking no higher than his chest, then lower back to the vial in her hand. “There are many things I must tell you, but I do not know where to begin.” Her indrawn breath was shaky.

Sandor lowered his head again. It was only right she should be afraid of him. Even injured, he could still hurt her. His eyes stung again at the thought of causing her any harm. He felt her small hand on her shoulder.

“I was with child when we came here.” He heard her voice break but could not bear to see her anger. “I lost it, though, just before you woke up.” Sandor remembered a fevered dream of a young boy with dark hair and blue eyes. He rested his burned cheek into the palm he was not aware had moved to his face. “I was so scared until the Elder Brother told me what was happening. And then I could only grieve. I had wanted your child so much, and to have it ripped from me when I did not know if you were going to live or die. The Elder Brother says I am young and healthy enough to have other children. At the time, though, I could only think of how much I did not want any child but this one you had given me. Perhaps the child was the gods’ price to give you life. It was a dear price, but one I had to pay.”

Her second hand gently touched his other cheek and a soft press of lips to his head was enough to break the dam. Tears fell as Sandor wrapped his arms around her waist, pressed his face into her shoulder. Her arms and smell enveloped him as sobs wracked his body. He should have been with her; he should not have put her in that position. He should have done many things and all he could do was mourn for the innocence she once had, for the son he had only met in a dream. His sobs lessened to ragged breaths as her hands ran up and down his back and he became aware of her own tears dripping into his hair.

“I also must apologize,” she continued when both their crying stopped. “The night you came to my room. I deceived you. I should have made you aware of my presence when you entered, but I chose not to. It was wrong of me and because of this, we bedded under false pretenses. I can only ask for your forgiveness.” Sandor tightened his arms around her, wanting her to understand he would never hold his mistakes against her. “I was also selfish. My mother and septa both taught me a lady was always virtuous and kind. I was selfish to say nothing and spiteful at knowing it was something Joffrey would never take from me. I should have been honest, should have told you I wished to give my maidenhead to you.”

He shook his head, face still buried in her neck. She couldn’t know what she was saying. It was impossible for her to have wanted to commit treason, impossible to have chosen him above all her perfect knights. She held him tighter. “I know you would not have come to me willingly. But if I was to live as Joffrey’s queen, I wanted just one happy memory.” Sansa pulled her arms away and stepped back. Sandor slowly looked up. Her hands returned to his cheeks and he held her gaze. “I do not regret the loss of my maidenhead, only that I had spoiled it by not being honest. When we ran, I tried to imagine what I could say to Robb to convince him to let us marry.”

A soft press of her lips to his forehead had Sandor closing his eyes and he was wrapped in her arms again. “I had not planned to tell him about it. I especially did not plan to tell Arya. After he…” She paused. “After we… When we stayed in that mountain village, I often wondered if you would take me as your wife. I had no family other than Arya, Winterfell gone. We were living as smallfolk and equal in their eyes. If we had been able to stay, would you have wed me? If I had not been highborn, but the daughter of some knight, would you have wed me, then?”

Sandor licked his lips and moved his jaw. After so many moons if silence, he wondered if he remembered how to speak. “I told you before I would be a terrible husband,” he rasped. He licked his lips again, swallowed. “Women who marry Cleganes have ill luck. My mother died birthing me. My brother killed both of his wives.”

“You are not your brother,” she whispered into his hair.

“We share blood. I am only good for killing. You deserve better. A Florian, to write songs in your honor, fight for your favor.”

He struggled to not look at her as she held his face again. He failed. “Florian was a killer. Knights are killers. The world was built by killers. But you are more than a killer. You are a man the gods have treated cruelly. You could have turned that cruelty on me, shown me the suffering the world has shown you. But you chose not to. You chose to show me what kindness you could. You chose to take me away from Joffrey’s cruelty, to protect my sister and me. Before he was arrested, my father offered to find me a husband who was gentle and brave and kind. You are all of these and more.”

“No.” He almost called her a little bird, but she was more woman in this moment than she had ever been. “I killed in cold blood. Women, children. I caused suffering. I wanted you even though I couldn’t have you. I fucked you, knowing it would mean my head. The night of the battle, I wanted to rape you. I told myself every time I fucked you I was raping you, that you could never want me.” His voice broke and he felt angry tears start to leak from his eyes again. “I committed many evils, Sansa, and the worst were against you.”

“Is that why you chose to join the order?” Her voice had grown soft.

Sandor let out a bitter, rasping laugh. “I haven’t joined yet. Penance is different from becoming a religious man.”

“So you have not committed to join?” He wanted desperately to believe that was hope in her voice.

“No, little bird, I have not.”

After a long pause, Sansa spoke again. “The warrior maid that arrived yesterday, Brienne, was sworn to my mother’s service. She was meant to find me and take me to my family. With my family gone, she was going to take me someplace safe and protect me. I believe her claims were genuine and I spoke with her. She would not have known how close she was if I had not revealed myself. I told her I was safest here and sent her to find Arya. I have been worrying about her since she left us, but I could not leave you when you were ill. The Elder Brother told me you believed you had forced me, and I could not leave you while you thought that. I had deceived you and could not let you believe otherwise. With Brienne here, with an opportunity to look for my sister in my grasp, I still cannot leave you. I cannot leave so long as I love you.” Sandor opened his mouth to protest, to tell her she was mistaken, but her fingers on his lips softly silenced him. “I know you do not think yourself worthy of love, but in this you are wrong. Your sister loved you as a child, playing games with you and encouraging your dream to be a knight. I love you now. You had no reason to show me kindness, risked everything to get me away from Joffrey, but you did it anyways. You are the truest thing in my life.”

There was nothing he could say to this. Why had he taken her from King’s Landing? Why was he unwilling to abuse her at the brat’s command? Why he had even kissed her that first time? It was certainly not for some perverse need to one-up the bastard king, nor to violate her innocence. Some part of him needed her. Not just her soft body, but the resiliency of her optimism and acceptance called to him. He could not remember a time since he was a small boy that he felt wanted for himself, just as he was.

“I ask you again.” The cracking in her voice pulled him from his reverie. “If we were equal, if I was not Winterfell’s daughter and you were not the Lannister’s Hound, would you have married me?” Sandor slowly nodded. “You left the Hound behind in King’s Landing and Winterfell is gone.”

“You are still the next in line to Winterfell. The castle may have been burned, but the title is yours.” Sandor drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “The war still rages and it’s autumn now, but I swear to you, when it is safe for you, I will get you your birthright. That is all in my power to offer you, Lady Stark.”

Without another word, Sansa stepped away from him and slipped out the door. The last view he had over her face was of blankness, as though she felt nothing about his declaration. Or as if she was hiding her feelings about it.

After a few moments, the Elder Brother stepped back into the tiny quarters. “Septon Maribald is listening to confessions, if you desire someone to speak with.”

Sandor shook his head. He didn’t want to talk. He had work to do.


	44. Chapter 44

Sansa woke up shivering. Cracking her eyes open, she saw the brazier had burned down to the tiniest coals. She wrapped the blankets tightly around her shoulders before rising from her pallet and padding to her small pile of firewood. She picked a couple small pieces to place on the heat. Blowing softly, the embers brightened until the pieces she added began to smoke, then a tiny tongue of flame caught. After adding a couple larger pieces, she padded to the window and peeked out of the shutters. In the moonlight, the ground sparkled white with a light dusting of snow. A moving shadow caught her eye before a cold breeze blew in from the sea. With another shiver, she closed the window again and returned to the fire.

The warmth had her fingers tingling. In a matter of moments, her hands quit shaking from the chill. She cracked the layer of ice in her pitcher and Sansa filled her little kettle and placed in on the edge of the fire to heat. After warming her hands again, she prepared a few pinches of tea leaves in her little tea pot and poured the hot water. As the tea steeped, she pulled on her warm robes and woolen socks. She poured the drink into her cup and sipped as she pulled on her boots. She was halfway through her second cup when the weak light of dawn began to peak through cracks in the shutters. She finished her tea and pinned on a cloak while she quietly left the cottage to start her chores.

Making her way up the hill, she saw the shadow had become a man, just as it did every morning, and that man started to dig a fresh grave, just as he did every morning. She knocked on the door to the Hermit Hole, then quietly let herself inside. The Elder Brother was already awake, sorting through bits of parchment. At a glance, Sansa saw they were lists: things to be done before winter, current herb and food stores, the last of the Saltpans refuges barely clinging to life and their treatments. She added some more logs to the brazier and prepared his tea. She had noticed early on the Elder Brother would often forget to eat or drink when his mind was occupied. The shorter days and colder nights were enough to occupy him in the days since the warrior maid had left. The light snowfall during the night would not have eased his mind.

As the water heated, she refilled his water pitcher from the well outside. She was chilled and shivering again by the time she returned. It took two tries before her fingers flexed enough to get a grip on the little kettle.

“Are you cold, Mother?” the Elder Brother asked softly.

_Winter is coming._

The words came unbidden to her mind and she almost dismissed them. Of course winter was coming; the signs were all around them. Then she remembered an old castle that had stood for centuries, and a long, solemn face with dark hair and grey eyes, years of troubles lightening the hairs of his beard. He had seen many winters and not all of them meant snow. Her father had told Sansa once that the Stark words meant hard times were coming.

“A bit of snow fell last night,” she answered.

The Elder Brother rose from the table and began rummaging through a couple of boxes on the far wall. When he turned back, he held a few small knots of yarn and a fistful of needles.

“I hope there’s something here you can use. Don’t want you to catch cold.”

Sansa thanked him and examined the pieces. There wasn’t enough of any one yarn to make anything, all of different quality, and most of it was dusty. With a bit of cleaning and used together, she decided she might manage a pair of gloves. The needles were all mismatched, some slightly wider and some slightly longer, some made from this or that type of wood and either sanded smooth or splintering with age, and one that looked like it was only a scrap piece of steel. In her distraction, she did not see the Elder Brother pull the steaming kettle from the fire and pour it. Hearing the water pouring pulled her from the materials and she looked up guiltily.

“I apologize, Elder Brother, I should be doing that, not playing with yarn,” she said softly as she placed them on a stool. _Sandor’s stool_ , she remembered

The Elder Brother waved away her words. “There is no need, Mother. It is my duty to tend to your well-being, not the other way around.” He gestured to the stool. “Please, sit. Do you know of anything you can make with those?”

Sansa sat and began untangling some of the yarn. “I think there is enough for a pair of gloves.” She set aside a short scrap, too short to use, but maybe enough to hold stitches when she started on the fingers. “They will not match, but they will be warm.”

She heard shuffling and glanced over to see he had gone back to his work. The next task was to pick the needles. With careful study, she found four that were close in thickness. She rubbed them against each other to wear off the worst of the splinters. With a bit of fumbling, she managed to cast-on what looked like enough stitches to wrap around her hand. She struggled through a row, then slipped it over her hand to test. It was far too large. After starting over with fewer stitches, the next ring was too small. With some trial and error, she was eventually able to make a circle large enough to stretch around her wrist by the time the bell rang for the morning meal. She was relieved to see her fingers remembering how to work the needles and each attempt came out more evenly than the one before.

As she broke her fast, she did what she could to ignore Sandor. After confessing her sins to him, he still believed himself below her station. She was never meant for Winterfell. That was always meant for Robb, then Bran and Rickon after if no trueborn sons came. She was meant to inherit nothing. _Just like Jon Snow_ she thought. She felt a pang of compassion for her half-brother. She had thought as Eddard Stark’s daughter she was above the bastard. In truth, she had only the hope of a good marriage. With her father a proclaimed traitor and her name nothing more than a way to seize control of the north, she understood how equal she really was to her brother. She should not have thought so poorly of him when they were children.

During a prayer led by a proctor, Sansa’s eyes wandered to where Sandor hunched over his bowl. She found herself wondering what he would think. What would he think of her new found empathy towards her natural brother? What would he think of her status being no better than a bastard? She knew there was a time he would have pulled her into his arms and played with her hair or stroked her skin as she spoke. She would have wondered if he was listening until tried to comfort her, in his way, by saying Jon would have gotten worse than anything she could have done. Then he would have used his mouth and fingers on her until she had forgotten all the ways she snubbed her own brother, forgotten she even had brothers.

The image sent an unexpected pool of warmth between her thighs. She shifted in attempt to relieve the pressure, to no avail. She felt eyes on her and glanced over. The Elder Brother watched her with concern. She felt her face warm with embarrassment. Fidgeting during prayer was not the conduct of a proper lady and she knew better. In the wilderness and now, hiding on an island of holy brothers, she was still a lady. Sitting correctly, she listened intently to the rest of the lessons, willing the sudden need to dissipate.

With a sigh of relief, she rose after the last prayer. Sansa was careful to avoid running into Sandor as she made for the door. If he wished to be no more to her than a sword then her sword he would be. It was not ladylike to be overly familiar, nor to feel the things she felt. She could only hope with time the distance became less painful.

Returning to the Hermit’s Hole, she resumed work on the first glove. After a number of rows, she tried the wool on again. Satisfied with the length, she pulled it off again to add stitches for the thumb. As consumed as she was, the Elder Brother’s entrance hardly caught her attention. The clanking of clay jars and clatter of medicines being stirred was almost soothing to her. The noises tickled an old memory of happier times, when she had been more innocent.

“You haven’t spoken of the conversation you had with Clegane.” Sansa almost thought she had imagined the words, they were spoken so softly. “Do you wish to?”

She knotted a new strand of yarn to the old. “He swore to help me fight for my home when spring comes. With my trueborn brothers dead, the title and lands fall to me.”

“That may not be for many years.”

“It is my birthright. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. And if I die with no sons of my own, it will go to Arya, wherever she may be.”

“Is that what you want?”

Sansa thought it over. “It is what is right. I spent so much time being selfish, wanting to be a maiden from one of the songs I loved, wanting to marry Joffrey. I see now how foolish those wants were. I am a Stark. What I want is not as important as what is right. And it is right that the heir help the people of the north rebuild.”

“I see you’ve been studying the Father’s Laws,” the Elder Brother commented.

“I used to think the smallfolk were only born to serve me.” She felt herself give a wry smile. “I think my parents meant for me to learn otherwise. But it took seeing how they lived and suffered at their lords’ hands to understand.”

“And Clegane?”

She had hoped the conversation would not come back to him. “I will need someone I can trust to protect me and lead the fighting.” She threaded a smaller needle through the stitches on the thumb to hold them as she continued the hand. “He has proven his loyalty time and again. I will not deny him this when he has already sworn himself.”

“Will this be enough for you?”

Sansa’s heart squeezed. “It will have to be.” She continued working for a few more rows. “I am highborn and his house was created by my family’s enemies.” She slid most of her stitches onto the scrap of yarn she had saved and arranged the remainder on two of the needles. “I have been given so much from him, I cannot ask for more than he is able to give.”

A hand on her shoulder pulled her away from the glove and she looked up. “Perhaps he doesn’t know what he is able to give,” the Elder Brother suggested. “Perhaps he needs guided in exploring his own limits.” Before she could answer, he gave her shoulder a squeeze and made his way to the door carrying a bag clinking with jars. “Keep working on those gloves. Winter is coming. I will see to our guests.” With that, he closed the door behind him.

By the time the Elder Brother returned that afternoon, Sansa was weaving the last of the loose threads into her new gloves. At his request she pulled them on to show her handiwork. The brazier kept the small cave warm enough that the gloves were slightly uncomfortable and her stitches were a little uneven, but on a cold morning they would suffice.

“Where did you get all this yarn?” she asked, suddenly curious.

His solemn face grew sadder. “Some women come to this isle to be healed, expecting to leave. Sadly, some never do.” She said a silent prayer on behalf of the souls who had contributed to her gloves. A rustling drew her back to the worktable. “I found these in the stores,” he said as he pulled a few skeins of yarn from his bag. “I’d forgotten they were there. There are also a few bags of wool and one of the brothers was a spinner before he came to us, if you need more.”

Sansa removed her new gloves and felt the wool. It was of a similar quality to what she had just finished using. “Do any of the other brothers need gloves?” she volunteered.

The Elder Brother finished pulling yarn from his bag. “I’m sure they would appreciate keeping their hands warm this winter.”

She immediately set to work on another glove, using the Elder Brother’s hand as a size guide. When the bell rang for supper she had added the first stitch for the thumb. As she ate, Sansa took a mental count of all the brothers. Something from the day’s lesson from the Book of the Seven distracted her from her counts. “Just as the Mother shows us mercy, so the Father shows us justice,” he continued. “Just as the Smith gives us the strength to do our work, so the Crone guides us on our designated path. As the gods have guided our lives through our births and trials, so must we look to their example in our choices and deeds.”

Sansa remained deep in thought through the end of supper. After tending to the Elder Brother’s brazier, she was too distracted to bid him goodnight before leaving for her cottage. She started her own evening fire. Fingering the rough wool of her new gloves, she came to the decision she had put off for too long, the choice she had not wanted to make.

She woke to the early morning chill blowing in through the cracks in her windows and door. With a shudder, she stoked her fire and dressed. While her kettle came to a boil, she peeked out the shutters. In the starlight, a shadow moved in the distance. She wondered as the shadow stared out across the sea. Was he waiting for the dawn? Why? She closed the window and returned to her fire to prepare her tea. Waiting for it to steep, she thought carefully over her words, then decided the simplest were the best.

With a cup in hand, Sansa quietly left her little cottage just as the sky began to lighten and change with the dawn. The walk to the graveyard seemed to take longer than it should have, until she reached it. Then it seemed a shorter distance than any other on the island. At her quiet cough, Sandor turned, as though startled. She waited until he took the hot tea before she spoke.

“If you swear yourself to me, swear to obey my commands unless they put myself or others in needless danger, swear to protect and serve me, to give me counsel should I ask it, and guide me until your death or mine, then I will accept your promise to help me regain Winterfell.”

He gave her only a shallow bow. In another life she would have believed him to be mocking her, but now she smiled as she turned away. He was hers. He promised.


	45. Chapter 45

He knew he should have expected his glove to rip. The yarn had been growing thin again. No matter how strong Sansa – Lady Stark’s – stitches were each time she repaired them, it was only a matter of time before he wore through them. Since the third year of winter started, though, they seemed to need fixing more often. The ground had frozen halfway through the second year. The last of the injured from Saltpans had either died or left long before then, so it made not matter to him. Instead he’d helped with needed maintenance work to the buildings on the island. Until an illness came.

It was the old that caught it first, brothers who had seen too many winters to last another. Then men in their prime and young novices caught it. Sandor had caught the disease and was forced to live in the infirmary for a fortnight. His blood had boiled, but his skin froze. Now, almost a year later, he hardly remembered what he had dreamed; only that fire had been involved. And he had woken weak. That was the worst of it. For days after he could hardly walk from his cell to the dining hall, let alone break through the frozen ground to dig graves for those who didn’t make it through. But so many died there was nowhere to keep the bodies until spring. So he began digging graves again. It was slower and harder than in the autumn and the shovel wore through his gloves.

Lady Stark never complained about mending them, though. The first few times, she nearly had to pry the gloves from his hands when she saw how thin they were. He knew the gloves were not meant as a special gift; she had made a pair for every man on the Quiet Isle. But she had been the one to make them, the one to repair them when they were threadbare. The disappointment of having damaged them again made him feel foolish. But for now he had work to do. There was a grave to dig.

Sandor’s thoughts turned to the dead brother. He hardly knew the man, which was to be expected from a silent order. What he did know was the man’s first thought on seeing a great black horse come to the isle was to hitch a plow to the beast in an attempt to sow one last harvest before winter. In return, Stranger had broken the man’s leg. The bone had never set correctly, shattered in two places as it was. Along with a limp painful to watch, the brother acquired an infection he never fully recovered from. After three years, he finally succumbed in the night. Sandor spared the late brother a few thoughts. It wasn’t his fault a warhorse lived up to its training.

“At last Brother Rawney may be at peace.”

Sandor raised his head at the Elder Brother’s words. It hardly surprised him anymore that the man could move so quietly. Instead, he placed his shovel to the side and carefully reached for Brother Rawney’s feet. The Elder Brother instantly bent to grasp the shoulders. As one, they lifted and moved the corpse into the fresh grave. The holy man gave the sign of the seven as Sandor began to refill the grave.

“Allow me.” That did surprise him. The Elder Brother reached for the shovel. “Hard work will do me some good. Perhaps a visit to Mother Joy would also do some good.”

Sandor nodded and reluctantly relinquished the shovel. It appeared his glove would get mended today after all. Marching up the hill, he kept his hands tucked under his arms and his shoulders hunched against the cold. He could feel his teeth painfully chattering by the time he reached the door in the hill. He reached to open the door, then thought better of it. He knocked a little harder than he intended, but still waited, shivering.

As the door opened, heat seeped out to him. He closed his eyes a moment, felt his face start to warm again. It made his jaw itch, but he kept himself from scratching, knowing he would only find bone. Instead, Sandor opened his eyes. For a moment, he locked gazes with Sansa. After a pair of heartbeats, he bowed.

“Lady Stark.”

He was not prepared when she suddenly leapt into his arms. He caught her, but his leg did not. He pivoted the best he could and landed on his back in a snow patch, Sansa sprawled across him. When she started giggling, he could only stare in confusion. This was the first time he had seen a proper smile on her in far too long. She hadn’t been nearly this merry when they ran, too frightened they would be found and caught. Nor had her eyes sparkled so much the day of the bastard king’s coronation, when she had stayed back to celebrate as one of the smallfolk. Each memory was laced through with pain and bitterness. Had he ever seen her so happy with the world?

“He’s alive,” she rasped between giggles. Lady Stark climbed off him and rose, holding her hand out to him. Sandor helped himself up. “Come inside, I’ll show you.” She grasped his hand and pulled, clearly eager.

In the Hermit Hole, he sat heavily on the bed and propped his aching leg along the length. It did not bode for him well if one enthusiastic woman was able to nearly cripple him. He was worth nothing as a soldier if he couldn’t keep his ground.

“Here.” She thrust a small, water stained paper into his hands. “A raven must have gotten caught in a storm and died before it could reach the intended recipient. But read it.”

Sandor tried to obey. Much of the ink had bled across the paper. Only three words remained even remotely legible and those still blurred: “found Rickon Stark.” The handwriting was scratchy, as though written by a child, but more care had been put into those words than a child normally displayed. An adult, then, just barely learning his letters. He remembered as a boy seeing his grandfather’s old papers and marveling at how they seemed to share a hand. Only as he grew and gained practice did he realize his grandfather was only barely literate. But the same care was in the writing of those papers as in these three words. Sandor looked up, waiting for an explanation.

“We thought Rickon and Bran dead, remember?” Sansa spoke breathlessly, as though the words had to be said quickly in order to be true. “Theon Greyjoy had killed them. Or made us think he had killed them. But somehow they lived. Rickon was in hiding somewhere and he lives.” She gave the tiniest bounce on the last word, as though she wanted nothing more than to dance for joy.

“Who found him, my lady, and when?”

For only a breath did she seem to deflate, but she became more resolute than ever. “It does not matter.” She took the paper from him. She stared at it, perhaps looking for any other information on the last of her family. “If it is an enemy then we will fight for his freedom. If we are too late, then we will have our vengeance. If it was an ally, we will thank them and continue this alliance.”

“Whomever found him knows your brother’s the new king of the north now that the young wolf is dead. And he’s barely a babe –”

“Eight.” Sansa interrupted. “He’s eight.” She looked away, towards the ceiling, and blinked rapidly. “I have not seen my brother in five years. He will have no memory of me.”

“He’s young enough for whomever has him to use him. They can declare a regency, take control of the north in your brother’s name. If you walk into that, they’ll either see you as a threat to their power or you’ll be another tool to use.”

“Or they are an ally, defending and protecting the North in Rickon’s name.”

Sandor let out a breath of air. How could he ever think she would quit believing in stories of knights and valor? “Or they might be on your side,” he conceded reluctantly. “We need to know which before we can do anything.”

She began digging through papers on the Elder Brother’s desk. “I was not meant to know any of this, but Roose Bolton’s bastard was legitimized after Robb’s death. I know they are not to be trusted. The Boltons held Winterfell, but just before winter, Stannis Baratheon gathered an army of Northmen to attack. If the mountain clans are behind him, then surely he is the ally. If Lord Bolton has, or had, my brother, King Stannis would not let him die.” At last, she pulled another small paper from the pile, no bigger than what a rave could carry. “Here. At least one raven was sent to the crannogmen by clan leaders calling them to join.”

Sandor glanced through the paper as he took it. It said exactly as she claimed: signed by “The Flint,” it called for “The Reed” to gather his swampmen and meet King Stannis at the gates of Winterfell to remove Roose Bolton and his bastard.

“Winter started three years ago. A lot can change in that time.” Lady Stark handed him another small paper. This one was nearly as water damaged as the one that started her excitement and said only “hold Winterfell.” “This means nothing, little bird. It could even be a missive to Bolton, not from Stannis.” When she had no answer, he looked up, quizzical.

“It has been three years since you last called me that.”

Sandor thought over his words, trying to figure out what he said, then looked away. “Forgive me, my lady.”

Small hands, once soft but now dry and starting to callus from work, turned his face to hers. “I missed it.” She pressed her lips to his forehead. “I know it is difficult, that I have no solid evidence for any of this but please,” she rested her head against his, “please believe me. My brother is alive and safe. Stannis is my ally. He has Winterfell. He will not abuse Rickon’s power. I cannot explain how I know, but I do.”

He didn’t know how he could believe her certainty. What she showed him was too weak to go to war over. But her faith was too unshakable to argue. “I believe you. Your brother lives. But we need to know how safe it is to get you to Winterfell, before we can just ride off.” The lie tasted bitter on his tongue but he was nonetheless rewarded with a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Thank you.”


	46. Chapter 46

Sansa stared up at the dark ceiling of her tiny cabin and sighed. A small, nagging voice kept saying she should have told Sandor everything. What would this have accomplished, though, other than making him think her mad? It felt like a lie, albeit one by omission, to not tell him she believed Rickon alive and safe because she had dreamed it. And every dream was different.

Sometimes she saw him in the Godswood, sitting next to her, before the black pool, listening to stories told by a woman Sansa did not recognize. Shaggydog, fully grown, slept beside them. Other times, Rickon was in the ruins of what was once their mother’s sept, a great bulk she recognized as Wyman Manderly beside him, telling him about her parents. Once, she dreamt he was inside the Great Hall, playing with a girl only a few years younger than Sansa, cheek scarred with greyscale, a bald man behind them speaking quietly with the heads of most of the Northern houses. An orange light filled the scene, as though she was watching them through a fire. That one scared her. As she watched the children play, a tall woman dressed in red, with flame red hair, stepped into view and stared directly at Sansa. That was the first and only time anyone in her dreams had seen her.

But how could she expect to have Sandor accept these dreams? Her dreaming of Rickon playing with a girl did not make it so. That he believed because she asked was more than she could have hoped for. And she had no proof the man she had seen was Stannis Baratheon, beyond a passing resemblance to King Robert. A part of her wanted to find Sandor’s cell now, to tell him the truth, that she had dreamed her brother was alive. Knowing he would think her mad was all that kept her in bed. There was no way to explain how these dreams were different, how they were more real than an ordinary dream.

Distracted as she was by her thoughts, Sansa did not feel the tug of sleep upon her until she was already dreaming. She was in the Great Hall again, everything lit by an orange glow. Tables and benches had been pushed to the far walls. In their place were pallets lined up side-by-side, blankets heaped over the sleeping bodies. In the pallet closest to her, only a shock of red hair peeked out from the piles of furs. She wondered idly when the last time Rickon’s hair had been cut and combed as she tried to reach for it. To her surprise, the dream did not allow her any movement beyond the merest flicker of her fingers.

A whispered “m’lady” in a strange accent caused her to look away. The woman all in red sat before her, their eyes level. Sansa felt her heart begin to race. “Do not be frightened,” the woman said, though Sansa could think of no way for her emotions to be known. The woman laid her hand over the choker at her throat, the ruby there glowing. “We may speak; the Red God has granted us this vision of one another.”

“Who are you?” Sansa whispered, forgetting her courtesies.

“My name is Melisandre, advisor to King Stannis Baratheon. And you are the lady Sansa Stark, sister of Lord Rickon Stark and Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“How do you know who I am?”

“The Red God has granted me this knowledge.”

“Is this real or just a dream?”

“Are the two so different?”

“Rickon…” Her vision turned to his sleeping form again. “He is really alive?”

“He is. But he does not remember you, Lady Sansa. He was too young when last you parted.”

Sansa remembered Sandor’s words from during the day. “What does King Stannis plan on doing with my brother?”

“Protect him. Ensure when he comes of age, there will be a North and a Winterfell for him.”

“Is Stannis his regent now?”

“In a way. Stannis Baratheon is the rightful king of Westeros, including the North. He holds Winterfell for his kingdom’s sake, but will not deny your brother his birthright when he is old enough to take the knee.”

“‘There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,’” Sansa murmured to herself. “Roose Bolton,” she directed at the woman, Melisandre, “What of him?”

“Defeated. Many in the North are still loyal to your family and came at their king’s summons.”

Sansa felt whatever power that held her begin to weaken. “Is it safe?” she asked quickly, hopeful. “Can I come home?”

Melisandre bowed her head. “You are welcome but-” Her words began to fade away then, though her lips still moved. The woman’s face became confused when Sansa shook her head, showing she did not understand. She tried again, but now even the vision grew darker and faded away to nothing.

Sansa woke with a start, a faint light shining through the cracks in her shutters. Heart fluttering with excitement, she threw back the covers and dressed quickly. She needed to know what the woman was trying to say. Was it safe to go home? What was the best road to travel by? Sansa hardly felt the cold as she hurried out into the night. The full moon lit her steps as she nearly flew up to the door in the hill. Banging on the door, she only hoped the Elder Brother was not a heavy sleeper.

“I need a raven,” she blurted as the door opened at last.

The Elder Brother’s brow furrowed. “Mother Joy, is all well?” He stepped aside to let her pass.

“It is. I need to send a raven, though, to Winterfell. I need to know… something.” She did not know why she was unable to tell the Elder Brother about her dreams. “It is of the utmost importance,” she added weakly.

“So I gathered.” He closed the door and moved past her to sit. For the first time, Sansa noticed how slowly and stiffly he moved.

“Are you well?” she asked, ashamed that she had not noticed before.

“Well enough,” he waved her concern away. He twined his fingers together before him on the table. “Now tell me why you need a raven so much.”

“I need to send a message to –”

“To Winterfell, yes, you said that, sweetling.” He watched her a moment, concerned. “Can you tell me why?”

Sansa’s fingers twisted together. _Because I had a dream_ sounded foolish even to her. “Please forgive me, I cannot explain why.”

“Can you at least tell me what message you wished to send?”

Sansa sighed, resigned. “I need to know if there are any safe roads to Winterfell. I need to know where there is loyalty to my family. I need to find a way home.”

His face grew sad. “You mean to leave us then.” He waved her close as he pulled a rolled parchment from a shelf beside him. Unrolling it he displayed a map of the Seven Kingdoms. “Here,” he pointed to a tiny bay near the middle, “here is the Quiet Isle. And here,” he drew a line with his finger at the narrowest point on the map, “is where the North starts. All this between is the Riverlands. We both know the death of your family was to give control of the Riverlands to the Frey’s, and the Lannister’s by extension. And over here,” his finger circled an area to the side, “is the Vale. Nearly impassible mountains. They have managed to stay out of the war for quite some time, but this does not mean they will be eager to help.” He paused a moment, watching her study the map. “There is no safe road north right now.”

Sansa pointed to a line that ended in the bay. “This is the Trident. It reaches all the way into the North. Even frozen, it is difficult to cross, so we will be protected on one side if we follow it.”

“We?”

She looked up. Had something changed? “Sandor and I.” She turned back to the map and continued. “If Winterfell knows to expect us, they might even send a party down to meet us, protect us the rest of the way.”

“Sandor Clegane is a different man,” the Elder Brother said softly. “He was once full of rage and violence, ready to kill at a word. Surely you have seen he is no longer that man. Are you sure he would be the best protector for you?”

Sansa thought back. True, there had been a time when the anger in his eyes had frightened her because that was all she saw. Over time, had she started to see more? Or had the rage gentled? The inn where he had fought off his brother’s men was the first time in months she had been afraid of him. For so long before then, he truly was a different man. And now… Now he was different. She could not picture the quiet gravedigger and her level-headed advisor enjoying the kill as he once had. Was his loyalty to her enough? The old injury to his leg was also a hindrance. Once, he could lift her like she was a feather, and now her weight knocked him over. _Could_ he fight and kill as easily as he once had?

“He is all I have.” She was not aware she said the words until the Elder Brother stood before her.

“This is not true. You have the Seven. And if you believe the North has not forsaken the Stark family, then you have that.”

Tears pricked her eyes, though Sansa could not begin to explain why. “I need to know. I need to send a raven.”

“You know there is no maester on this island, and so no ravens.” He gently wiped a tear from her cheek. “If this is so important, write your letter. When Septon Meribald comes next, we will send it with him. A septon may travel freely through the country and your letter will be likely to reach its destination.”

She nodded, defeated. The only other way she could speak with the woman again was in another dream, but there was no knowing how to make it happen again. “May I write it now?”

At his assent, she sat at his desk and pulled a small scrap of paper towards her. For a moment, Sansa collected her thoughts. She could not write something too obvious should the letter fall in the wrong hands, nor so vague no one would understand it. Her eyes fell to the map again. The North lay to her right and Dorne to her left, with the mouth of the Trident in front of her. From this angle, the river looked most like its namesake, with the island at the base like a jewel in a sword’s handle. After seeking the word she needed from the Elder Brother, Sansa wrote just one sentence.

 

> “ _Melisandre, the pommel of the trident has a red wolf_.”

She almost signed her name, but instead only put her initials, the loops and swirls of each _S_ as perfect as Maester Luwin had taught when she was a child.

A moon’s turn later, she placed the letter in Septon Meribald’s hands, begging him to make sure it reached Winterfell and was only handed to a woman all in red.


	47. Chapter 47

Her anxiousness was palpable. In the days after the traveling septon left, she could be seen at all hours of the day racing across the tiny island: taking water to the kitchens, feeding the sheep, collecting winter vegetables from the gardens, cleaning the sept. But every motion seemed distracted, as though her mind wasn’t on any one task. More than once, she was even seen to be staring into the distance, her current activity forgotten completely. At one point, Sandor had even had her ride Stranger around the island to exercise the horse. This went well enough until they were found at the fishponds, the woman still mounted on the animal’s back, staring to the distant shore, while the other drank through broken ice.

He didn’t know if she shared her thoughts with the Elder Brother, but Sandor worried. Lady Stark had never been so distracted. Even as a girl, on the Kingsroad and in King’s Landing, before Joffrey showed his true face, she had been able to focus on one thing at a time. Be it her stitching or mooning over the bastard king, he never saw her mind wander from her task. Now, she was on the other side of the world. After a supper in which she ate nothing in her distraction, Sandor at last made up his mind.

Carrying his spade over his shoulder, for all appearances going to dig another grave, he made his way outside during evening prayer. Just before the cemetery, out of view of the sept, Sandor turned instead towards the women’s cottages. She would be praying with the brothers, but he never did. He saw no harm in waiting, not when this is where she came after prayers every night, and no one would see him coming or going.

After carefully lighting a candle from the embers of the brazier, Sandor added a pair of logs in attempt to warm the little room. That done, he looked around the cottage. The shutters had been pulled closed with rags stuffed into the cracks to block out the cold. The mattress was lumpy and low to the ground. The only other furniture, a short table and a chair, were roughly made. He felt himself frowning. This was not the quarters of a highborn lady. If he had not taken her away, she wouldn’t be in squalor like this. Though, if they had stayed in the city, she would have been married off to Joffrey, and most like blamed for his death. And the start of her moonblood near guaranteed she would have been raped by the boy well before the blessed event. It was best, he decided, that she be here. No one would think to find a lady like her in a place like this. He sat heavily in the chair and braced himself when it creaked under him. Once he got her to Winterfell, though, and determined if her brother lived and if Stannis meant to restore the Starks, Sandor would ensure she never knew a life like this again.

The crunching of rocks and frozen ground outside the cottage was the only warning he got of Lady Stark’s arrival. Pain shot through his leg as he stood, the old stab wound rebelling against the cold weather. By the time the door opened, he had fully righted himself. Sandor waited until her eyes fell on him before giving her a shallow bow. He was coming to her as a servant and there was no use in pretending otherwise. “Lady Stark,” he added evenly.

“Sandor,” she returned in surprise. “Is something the matter?” He noticed she clasped her hands before her, a gesture she had started to hide her fear from the boy king.

“Perhaps you could tell me.” He watched her blink. “You have not been yourself. Did the septon say something?”

“I…” She sat slowly on the bed. “You will not believe me,” she sighed.

“Tell me,” he growled.

“You will think me lying or mad.” When she would not meet his eyes, Sandor sat in the chair again and leaned forward, waiting. “When we were little, Old Nan used to tell us stories about the First Men, children of the forest, and creatures beyond the wall. One of those stories was about the early Starks, descended from the First Men. She told us in the early days of our house, the Starks had abilities. Some could change their skins, others could see things they had no way of knowing.” She paused, as though unsure how to continue.

“Your sister said she saw your mother dead in a dream,” he prompted.

Lady Stark nodded. “I have been seeing Rickon in dreams. Every time I see him, I dream I am in Winterfell, but he is unable to see me. It is as though I am part of the castle itself. If I dream of him in the godswood, I am in place of the heart tree. If I dream of him in the sept, I am looking at him from the floor, as though I am looking through the eyes of a broken statue.” Sandor nodded, remembered hearing whispers of how the Starks were different, how their ancestors claimed greensight. “I also had dreams of a woman with him, a woman in red. She was able to see me and spoke to me. She told me King Stannis held Winterfell, that Rickon was safe.” Sansa’s eyes turned to him at last, pleading. “I have to go to him, so I sent a letter with Septon Meribald, telling her where we are.”

Sandor took a deep breath, chest clenched in a way he hadn’t known for years. “How d’you know it was safe to send that? The Lannisters may very well still be looking for you, or some other house, looking to claim your title, not knowing about your brother. Traveling septons are not immune to war.”

She nodded. “I thought of that, so I tried to keep it vague. She knows I am alive and looking for a way home, so she would understand it better than someone else.”

Sandor nodded again, uncertain, hoping she was correct. He didn’t know if he could completely believe that she was a greenseer. On the other hand, it did explain why she was so adamant about her brother being alive. It was difficult for him to believe something he didn’t see. He had seen death, brutality, and hate, and for years that was all he believed. But she had also showed him kindness and love. Was it possible to also see across great distances?

“It will take some time for the septon reach Winterfell.” He remembered the summer snows that fell the one time he was there. Winter would certainly be worse. “If at all,” he added. “And tell me before you send letters telling the world where you are.” He truly had not meant to snap at her, but he could not serve her if he did not know what she was doing.

“Please forgive me,” she said as she stood. Holding his hand lightly she continued, “I did not know how to tell you. I could not bear the thought of you believing me mad.”

He could not stand it either and gripped her chin firmly so she looked him directly in the eyes. “Never,” he promised. The softness of her lips and blue of her eyes pulled him and he found himself pressing his lips to hers.

Her hands wound through the strands in his hair as the kiss was returned. Her lips opened easily to him as he deepened the kiss. He could still taste remnants of supper on her tongue, but the familiarity of her came through. His hand left her chin and he slid it along her jaw and behind until he cradled the back of her head. Silky strands caressed his fingers as he held her in place. Unconsciously, he let his free hand slip around her waist and pulled her closer. Her breasts, fuller than he remembered, pressed against his chest. The new sensation jarred him from the kiss.

Sandor broke away and moved his hands to her shoulders, gently guiding her away. “No,” he choked. After clearing his throat, he repeated it more firmly. “ _No_.”

Her hand moved to his ruined cheek. “Please,” she whispered. “I miss you.”

Sandor closed his eyes, looking for strength to do what was needed. With a deep breath, he pulled her hand away and rose, towering over Sansa. “I bid you a good night, Lady Stark.” He only dipped his head, too close to bow. Without a look, he turned towards the door, his leg protesting at the motion after sitting for so long. His lips still tingled with the memory of hers. It had been too long, and should not have happened. He wanted more.


	48. Chapter 48

Sansa watched the door, silently asking the gods, any gods, to make Sandor turn around, send him back to her. When it became clear she would not get her wish, she went through the motions of preparing for bed. Once another pair of logs were added to her brazier, she undressed down to her chemise, and crawled under the blankets of her bed. Once, in another life, she would have had furs on top. Now, she simply had layers upon layers of rough wool. Fully burrowed in, Sansa’s fingers strayed to her lips.

The kiss left her tingling and her skin still burned where he had touched her. Just the thought of his lips on hers brought a familiar ache. In the past, in the darkness of her little cottage, she had previously attempted to alleviate her desires. Some nights she gave up, despairing that her own fingers where not what her skin called for. Other nights, she was able to finish, but was only left feeling more empty afterwards. After knowing the touch of true wanting, there was nothing that could compare.

Tonight, though, she resolved to try again. She could still taste him when she licked her lips, which sent a throb between her thighs. Sansa turned to her side and pulled her chemise high enough to reach under. The coarse curls brushed against her palm as her fingers delved between. Her nether lips were already damp with need. Sansa slid two fingers along either side of her opening, imaging them to be Sandor’s. Though her hands had grown calloused from work, they were still softer than his, and too small. Slightly frustrated, she began to press harder, looking for the pressure he would use.

Turning slightly towards her mattress, she slid her fingers to the sides of her nub. The resulting jolt had her gasping softly. She dipped one finger, quickly followed by a second, into her opening. Reaching deep, she found the hidden place that he would use to make her writhe. She could only just reach it with the tips of her fingers. She withdrew and instead drew slick circles around her nub, drawing closer to the sensitive place. The resulting tingles spread down to her toes. Though pleasant, it was not as strong as what she craved. Frustrated, Sansa burrowed deeper into the bedcovers and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

Come dawn, Sansa rose as she did each day. After making her tea and scrubbing her face, she dressed warmly and made her way up the hill to the hermit hole. As she did every morning, she built the Elder Brother’s small fire back up, started water for his tea, and lit a handful of candles. He thanked her softly when she placed one of the candles at the desk where he worked. She recognized the lists he was examining, a recording of their stores. Some casks of ale were crossed out with the lists of meats and vegetables showing a few additions. Too few.

“Is a cask of ale really worth so little?” she asked.

“The war has made food precious,” the Elder Brother sighed. “Few are willing to part with what they have in return for a bit of ale.”

She remembered how food was grown when she was a child. “Would the brothers be able to grow more vegetables in a glass garden?”

He shook his head. “Where would we get the glass?”

“Trade for it,” Sansa said matter-of-factly. “Rather than ale for food, trade the casks for building materials.”

The Elder Brother leaned back in his chair, interested. “Where would the glass come from? Saltpans is hardly rebuilt. And bringing it back?”

“Trade in the same places you trade for food.” She pulled a map from a nearby shelf and rolled it out. “Here in Lord Harroway’s town,” she pointed. “And here in Maidenpool. The river still flows, so a raft up the river and down the coast of the bay would be faster than walking. And…” She was interrupted by a great clanging of the bell from the sept.

Meals were never announced so violently in the past. Sansa and the Elder Brother both rushed to the door, confused. Outside was pandemonium. Silent brothers ran to and fro, pulling animals to the relative safety behind the wall at the top of the hill, others pulling what immature vegetables they could carry from the garden. Most concerning of all, though, were the brothers who remained frozen in place, staring. Leaving the small cave, Sansa made her way around the curve of the hill.

Down the coast of the island, crude boats and rafts were being pulled up to the ferry, men spilling from them. The flash of steel caught her breath. The Quiet Isle, her last safe place in Westeros, was under attack. The war had come despite their isolation, despite the Elder Brother’s efforts to make it forgotten. Before she could wonder what sort of man could attack an island of penitent brothers, a bit of yellow around one of the invaders tickled a memory. And then she was roughly pulled back around the hill and into the cave.

“Bar this door,” Sandor growled to her, grey eyes wide. _He’s frightened_ , she realized. The thought struck her deeper than seeing the men swarming the shore. “Don’t let anyone in for anything.” He waited for her silent assent before shutting the simple wooden door behind him.

Sansa quickly grabbed what furniture she could move. First the heavy chest was pushed before the door, then the table cleared and braced against it, followed by the chairs. As she worked, she could hear shouting outside, though the words were indistinct. She backed further into the cave. This was not meant to happen. Sandor was meant to heal, to arm himself and ride north with her. He swore himself to her, had promised to see her home. How was this to happen if he hurt or died, protecting her? And though some of the brothers had been soldiers, it was long ago, in another life. They were not equipped, not prepared or any longer trained to fight.

Her hand brushed something and she stared at the object she held. Though only a knife used for cutting meat, it was more protection than many on the little island had. Resolved, she tugged everything free of the door and edged outside.


	49. Chapter 49

Sansa blinked in the bright sunlight, then blinked again at the sight before her. Though she had hidden for mere moments, the landscape had changed drastically. Where once brothers had stood, some now lay in heaps of dun and brown cloth, the frozen ground soft from hard use. The ground was tinged with sprays and puddles of red. Those still living held arms swinging swords and daggers at bay, only to be dropped by arrows. Around the side of the hill, she heard the clatter of steel meeting wood and Sansa inched around.

Following the sound, she recognized the back of the Elder Brother’s shaved head as he swung a wooden pole at a young man built like an ox. Nearby, Sandor’s sword clashed against that of a great man with a badly crooked nose and a faded yellow cloak. Though Sandor was the bigger, the other was not hindered by an old wound. As she watched, his footing became unsteady as he slipped on a slick patch of earth. The yellow cloaked man pressed his advantage and Sandor went down to one knee, his leg unable to support him in the thick mud. Just in time, his sword blocked a swing at his head.

Unnoticed, Sansa eased around the pair, looking for some way she could help. Seeing an opening, she adjusted her grip on the knife and started forward.

Only to be pulled back again. She was spun around to face her captor, the hand holding her knife kept immobile by the grip on her wrist. Despite pulling as hard as she could, Sansa was kept in place by a tall man in a faded yellow cloak. As she struggled, the man stared. Then he brought his free hand up and grasped her face, turning her head to look at him directly. After a moment, he gave a single nod.

“I found her,” he bellowed to the other invaders. To her he added, “Someone’s been looking for you.” With a sharp pull to her arm, he began to drag her down the hill. Sansa struggled, but was ineffective against the large man.

In one of the beached boats, a hooded and cloaked figure sat, facing out to the distant shore. The noise of the large man dropping Sansa into the boat caused the figure to turn. The first thing she noticed was that the figure was a woman. Thin, white, brittle hair showed from under the hood, framing a scratched, yellowing face. But her eyes were a blue she remembered. It was a color she had seen every day of her childhood, every day she looked in the mirror at King’s Landing. She felt her lips shape the word before she recognized the sound of her own voice.

“Mother?”

The face of the apparition did nothing, but a hand reached out, the tips of fingers brushing her cheek. The fingers were soft, much too soft to be real. Or perhaps she had grown hard. But it was impossible for Lady Catelyn Stark to sit before her. As the creature moved on the bench, adjusted to face Sansa completely, the opening of the cloak shifted. A wide, deep, red line ran from one side of her throat to another. A wheezing sound from the opening in the neck made Sansa shudder. The apparition raised the hand not touching her cheek to its throat and covered the hole.

“Sansa,” it whispered, a barely audible sound.

“Let her go!” a great bellow came from behind them. Turning, Sansa saw Sandor held back by two of the invaders. His cowl had dropped away, revealing his scars and wide, frantic eyes. The yellow cloaked man waited for a nod from the creature before pulling his sword and making his way up the slope.

“No!” Sansa cried. She turned to the thing that looked like her mother. “Please. He protected me and helped me escape King’s Landing with no thought for his own gain. Please, do not let him be hurt, please.”

The corners of the pale mouth moved in a mockery of a smile. The overly soft touch did not stop, but rather felt more possessive.

“It is over,” the wraith mouthed. “You are safe.”

The thought that she was safe with a witch pretending to be her mother made her sick. She pulled from the monster and scrambled from the boat. “Leave him alone,” she yelled as she struggled up the slick coast. “Let him go!”

She saw the man reach for her and dodged around him as he slipped on a patch of mud. As she reached one of the men holding Sandor, she remembered the knife in her hand. Before he could react, Sansa drew her hand back before plunging the knife in his belly. The man must have been wearing some sort of armor or her strike was too weak because the dull blade simply slid past. The man let go of Sandor’s arm and reached to grab Sansa. Sandor reacted instantly to the lack of pressure to drive his elbow into the man before punching the one who held his other arm. Finally freed, he reached out to her.

Sansa grasped his hand and was pulled up the hill, not daring to look back at the frightening being in the boat. The shout of “Lady Sansa” caused her head to snap up. Near the vegetable gardens, presumably coming from the women’s cottages, stood a tall blonde figure in old blue armor.

“Brienne,” Sansa answered. “We’re being attacked, help us!”

Rather than making for the attackers behind the pair, though, Brienne of Tarth made her way up the hill as well, as though to intercept the pair. Glancing back, Sansa saw the invaders held back, waiting for something.

“Release her, Hound!” Brienne shouted, sword drawn.

Sandor froze beside her. His hand shook in her own and, when she looked at him, his eyes wide and haunted. His lips moved, but Sansa had to move closer to hear his whispered words. “I failed. I couldn’t protect you,” he repeated over and over.

Panicking, she tried to pull him with her up the hill to safety again. “You can protect me now. Come with me now,” she pleaded.

“Turn and fight me, dog,” Brienne challenged from behind them.

“They are the invaders,” Sansa gestured to the group that had formed down at the docks. “They are the danger, not him.”

“He is meant to be dead, my lady. But your mother lives. I promised Lady Stark I would reunite her with her daughters.”

“My mother is dead.” Sansa let go of Sandor’s hand to stand between them. “I was there. I stood outside the gates, and watched men loyal to the North be slaughtered. I am only alive because of Sandor protecting me.”

Brienne shifted impatiently. “Lady Sansa, I know you trust this man. But you are not safe here. If the Brotherhood without Banners can find you, it is only a matter of time until someone who means to harm you does as well. An island of penitent brothers cannot protect you, even if one is the Hound returned from the dead.”

“They know I am here because you brought them.” She knew it wasn’t ladylike, but Sansa found herself snarling the last.

The warrior maid shook her head. “You led them here with a note entrusted to a traveling septon.”

Sansa felt her breath catch. “Septon Meribald?” Brienne gravely nodded. “What did you do to him?” Then she remembered something else. “What about Arya? I sent you to find her. Where is she?”

Brinne looked back to the gathered group. Sansa saw the man in the yellow cloak make a gesture. “Your mother found me instead. If you will not be parted from the Hound, then he will come as well, Lady Sansa, but I promised your mother you would be reunited with her. It is time I fulfilled that oath.”

“That is not my mother,” Sansa repeated. “She died at the Twins.”

“The Red God has mysterious powers,” Brienne stated. “He has brought her back.”

The words were familiar to Sansa and she nodded hesitantly. “Very well.” She took Sandor’s hand. “We will go with you.”


End file.
